And though she would not pity herself for it, knowing that women the world over must suffer the unwanted touch of their husbands, she could not stop the tears that had fallen silently. They cut a path across her temples and fell into her ears. She told him they were tears born of the overwhelming joy of their reunion in the sight of God, and then she went to Gwenllian’s room to watch her daughter’s peaceful sleep.
Eighteen years ago, she had sat in the dark with only a candle and the sound of her daughter’s breathing, and chose. It was not out of the question to run away with Robert, to live as his lover somewhere far away. If the only cost was her wealth and status, she would have done it. But her marriage was an agreement to keep a rocky peace between the vast estate of Ruardean and the Welsh who lived along this border. Her union with Walter gave wealth and necessary influence to her brother, her uncle, all their children and their people. To abandon this marriage was to abandon them.
“Gwenllian,” she whispered to the girl who clutched some leaves in her sleep. There was dirt on her faintly sweaty neck and a scratch across her forehead. “My little warrior child.”
Gwenllian might not care if Eluned ran away from this life and forfeited her own future as a Norman lady. But she would care that she could no longer wrestle with her Welsh cousins. She would care if Walter would pull her from her mother’s arms, which he would do if he could find them, and almost certainly send his daughter to live out her days in a convent. All the spirit in Gwenllian would be turned to sin and shame, while Eluned would perish of a broken heart without her child. Even Robert could not soothe that ache.
Or maybe Walter would not find them and they would live in a different kind of prison, one of cautious movements and timid action. One day her daughter would understand all that she had lost because of her mother’s lust, and hate her for it. And if she were to have another child, Robert’s child? And if Robert were to die, or tire of her, and leave her alone and penniless with a bastard or two?
No, the world was not made for lovers to be happy for longer than a season.
Eluned stared at her daughter and almost could not breathe for the pride and fear that surged in her. Such a strong girl, who would too soon be made to quail before a man and do his bidding. Eluned clenched her jaw and felt the soreness left by her husband’s hand. If she must choose only one dream to make real, she would choose a fearless daughter over an adoring lover.
“Never will you cringe before a man, beloved,” she whispered to her sleeping child. “If it cost me my soul, I swear you shall fear no man.”
An hour later it did feel as though it cost her soul, when she told Robert that if he loved her, he must swear never to come to her again. Never to see her, or speak to her, or touch her. When he said in a voice of despair that he would risk anything to be with her, she thought of Walter’s fist at her throat. She thought of Gwenllian’s sweet sleeping breath, and told Robert not to be a fool. Already she felt dead to herself, standing in the dark before the dawn of the first day without him.
But she was not dead, of course. It did not kill her. Or at least, it did not kill all of her.
She left him, and in the forecourt as the sun rose she turned to young Madog. “Will you swear to me, cousin, that my daughter will have your loyalty and protection, no matter where she may go? That you will faithfully serve her – not me, not Ruardean, but her and her alone?”
He looked at her with an assessing air, this son of her favorite uncle. She saw his eyes take in the bruises her husband had given her, and the last trace of tears from her parting with her lover. He knelt before her and said, “By the grace of God, by the sword I will carry, and by my love for your daughter, I swear fealty to Gwenllian ferch Eluned, and ne’er will I swear it to any other as long as I may live.”
Then she went to the master-at-arms and bribed him to teach her daughter the sword.
So it had begun, the long and winding path of eighteen years which led from that day to this one. Now Madog was dead, and the peace her marriage had bought became irrelevant when the Welsh were vanquished. Her daughter had taken up the sword and mastered it, only to put it down again, forever, for love of a man. Walter had gotten a son on her, left on Crusade, and returned to her in a box. She had ruled Ruardean. And now she would not.
In her mind, she went over the lessons she had taken from that time. The first had been that love could make her lose her head as well as anyone, and she dismissed its power at her peril. The second had been that the world was not built for her, that it would try and try again to crush her – and no one would save her from it. She must save herself, or be ground into the dust. The last, and most lasting, lesson was this: that she must choose what she dared to desire with great care, and master the tight corners of the maze in which she was trapped if ever she was to have what she wanted.
All of it was still true.
There was light in the sky now. She must stop contemplating her yesterdays and think instead of the decision that must be made today. It was difficult, with thoughts of the long-dead past swimming in her jumbled mind. She must weigh all options with an uncommon clarity, when all she wanted to do was to take to her bed for a week, or a month or a year, and not think at all.
But despite the recoil of her spirit, her mind churned. She was built this way, or had been made this way by circumstance. She had long ago recognized that every great change was an opportunity, a rare chance to steer the course instead of being caught in the currents. Only the weak hesitate, stumble, or are so cowed by the responsibility that they do not even try.
“Love,” she murmured to herself. Begin with that, find where she was vulnerable. “What love is alive in my heart?”
Eluned closed her eyes and thought of her heart, and saw only a smoking ruin.
She stood that way, weary in every bone, eyes still closed, when one of her ladies entered. It was time to start the day. It was time to decide what her life would become next, no matter the state of her heart.
“Joan,” she said to the young maiden who emptied a jug of steaming water into a waiting basin. The girl had come here almost a year ago, to serve Eluned and to find a suitable husband. She was, refreshingly enough, not entirely empty-headed.
“My lady?” Joan turned from the basin and gave the tiniest of courtesies. She held a clean linen square in her hand and was so fresh and young that it was disorienting to think she was ready for marriage.
“You are fifteen, I think?” The girl nodded, then blinked expectantly while Eluned frowned. “Are you disappointed I have not found you a husband yet?”
Poor Joan looked lost, then concerned. “My lady, I am well pleased to serve you and not a husband.”
“I have been…” Eluned looked at her, all pink and white and smooth. How would life devour this little morsel? “My mind has been on other matters, but I do not forget your situation. If there is a man worthy of you, I have failed in finding him. But is there any man that you wish to have, Joan?”
She should have asked it before this, of course, because Joan immediately blushed and twisted the linen square in her hands.
“Sir Heward, my lady.” Having said the name, she seemed at a loss for further words for a moment. Then she burst out, eager to inform. “His rank is equal to my own and it is his fortune to be vassal to Ruardean which only last year granted him knight’s fee and the land is well placed with a very fine house that he plans–”
Eluned waved her hand to stop the girl’s breathless catalogue.
“Is this why you would have him? Because he is…appropriate?” Joan seemed to think this was a criticism, so Eluned hastened to assure her. “It is curiosity from me, nothing more. I wish to know how a woman chooses a husband, when she is so fortunate that she is permitted to choose.”
The girl bowed her head and spoke, surprisingly, with more than a little confidence.
“It is an attractive thing, that he is not too far below or above me and that he has wealth enough. But there are other such men I mig
ht choose, and do not. Sir Heward is kind, my lady. He is not full of vain flattery.”
Eluned felt a smile pulling at her lips. “And he is handsome and young. Tell me, though, why marry at all? Why choose marriage to a man and not give your keeping to the Church?”
The girl looked nonplussed. “I would – I think my temperament not suited to a life of devotion. For my family, there is more advantage if I marry well. And I have thought many times how I will strive to be like you, my lady, to ably manage a manor with authority and gain the esteem–”
“Yes, enough. Bring me bread for my breakfast, and the hard cheese.” Eluned walked to the basin and dipped her hands in. She did not wish to hear more of how this sweet young girl wished to be like her. “I will wear the deep blue surcoat and have fresh linen. Thank you.”
She listened to Joan leave, then wiped the warm water over her face. A temperament not suited to the Church, that was true enough. But hardly can I say I am suited for marriage. She could not depend on a new husband to take himself off to Antioch for the next fourteen years, after all. More advantage for her family, yes – that was a good reason. Is this what was left to her, then? Always had her life been defined by how it gave advantage to others.
From the basin her reflection looked back at her, and asked her what she wanted. Wales, came the answer, immediately. But Wales was lost. Wales was no more.
Revenge for Wales, came the next thought, and her heart raced.
She thought of Llewellyn in his last hours, when his head was still on his shoulders and not on a spike above London. He had trusted the Mortimers and walked into their trap.
Mortimer. She had cursed that name for half her life. It was a Mortimer who had slaughtered Montfort all those years ago, cut off the great man’s head and sent it to his wife. It was that same Mortimer who led the many campaigns against the Welsh, who had claimed so many Welsh lands as his own that you could walk for days and not reach the end of Mortimer territory. And when he died in the midst of fighting only a year ago, Eluned had thought that at last, perhaps, the Welsh might win their war.
But his blood ran true in his sons, who had lured Llewellyn to his death. The older one would inherit a great chunk of Wales and likely be given even more as reward for delivering Llewellyn’s head. The younger one, Roger – oh, he was a villain indeed. Depraved and degenerate by reputation, but his sins were even more grave than mere lust and violence. She did not forget that it was Roger Mortimer who had killed two orphaned Welsh boys who were the only heirs to an ancient principality. He claimed innocence of the murders and no doubt made a good show of mourning them even as he happily took ownership of all that had been theirs.
Such an appetite for violence and talent for deception these Mortimer sons had. Naturally they were beloved of King Edward, and so they would only gain more and more. More power, more riches, swollen fat as ticks off the blood of others.
Revenge for Wales. The world would do well with less Mortimers in it.
Joan returned, the blue surcoat folded neatly over her arm, accompanied by a servant with a tray of food and drink. Everything she would need to start the day.
“How useful you are,” Eluned murmured almost to herself. “What a laudable aim for a life, to be put to good use.”
How lucky, to live long enough to decide what use she would be. To rid the world of a Mortimer or two – what a delicious thought. She could not even be convinced it would condemn her immortal soul. It felt so very right. It filled her with a satisfying sense of purpose she had not felt for years, not since she had given up on aiding the Welsh rebellion.
As she had learned long ago, it must be done within the confines of the maze in which she was trapped. But now she had the power to change the shape of a vital corner of that maze. Shut up in a nunnery, she could only pray for justice. And she had seen how little God listened to her prayers.
“Sweet Joan, I did not say that Sir Heward is worthy of you, and you shall have him if you truly want him. I will see to it.” She reached up and pulled her braids free, debating whether she would have her hair washed before she ate. But no, she was suddenly quite hungry. “There are other advantages a married lady has that you have not thought of. You may go to court, and mingle with other noble families. Yes, a great many freedoms.”
Joan came forth with a comb, a happy smile on her face as she tended to her lady’s hair. Eluned reached for the loaf of bread and tore off a great chunk with her teeth, chewing it with relish and wondering if her son waited impatiently outside her door to hear her answer.
“Do you know,” she said as the sunlight grew brighter on her face, “I believe I am more suited to marriage, too.”
Chapter 4
The Harsh Light of Day
It was Meg, who brewed the finest ale to be had, who was on Robert’s mind on the morning of his wedding. When he had returned from France and seen her again, he had not recognized Meg at all. The sweet-faced seventeen year old girl he easily recalled was vanished and in her place was a sweet-faced old woman with pocked skin and very few teeth. Now he could not escape the thought that Meg was younger than he was, and he was younger than Eluned.
At first, nothing had seemed to matter at all except that Eluned had agreed to marry him. Despite the rather formal language she used in the message she had sent, he had seen her request that they be wed as soon as possible as a sign of her eagerness to be with him again. He had indulged for the last few weeks in fantasies of how joyous their reunion would be. After sobering up – and eventually climbing down from the giddy heights of being able to say her name so freely – it was borne in upon him that eighteen years was a very long time.
Now he found himself dwelling on Meg’s few teeth and questioning the reason for Eluned’s haste. They were supposed to have time together before saying their vows. A day, at least. But her party had encountered a delay on the road in the form of a washed-out bridge, and now she would arrive directly at the church doors. It must be today, if they were to be wed before the season of Advent prevented it.
The doubt and worries that had crawled into his head were not difficult to silence. All he need do was remind himself that it was her spirit he had loved. He would still want her, no matter if she little resembled the girl he’d known. He would always want her. But he would also like some warning.
For the tenth time this morning, Robert decided that gray was too somber and reached again for the rust-colored tunic. The gray had more embellishment but the rust was a more impressive velvet. And if he put the heavy silk velvet with the belt covered in topaz and emeralds, he thought he would make a fine looking groom. Maybe he would ask Kit which one suited him better. Or at least which one made him look younger. Then again, Kit might tell him he need not bother to expend such effort on impressing his bride.
He picked up the gray tunic and looked at the polished bits of jet at collar, cuffs, and hem. It would match the bits of gray hair that had lately begun to grow at his temples.
“You can always go naked to the church door,” came Kit’s voice. “But I have seen your bride, and I assure you that you will be sorely underdressed.”
Robert looked up at him expectantly.
“You decided to shave the beard, then! Well done, that servant might have wept if you’d called for the razor only to change your mind again. I have not seen your jaw in a year.”
Robert resisted the urge to run a hand over his bare face. He was still waiting, and his friend knew it. But when Kit said nothing more, Robert reached for the flagon of ale. Kit’s hand stopped him.
“She is handsome.”
Robert met his eyes. “How handsome?”
Kit gave a little shrug and a smile. He was clearly enjoying this. “She has all her teeth. Or at least the ones in front. And they are white as pearls.”
Robert nodded. He wanted to ask if her hair was still a dark brown, how worn was her face, if she had grown portly and if her eyes still flashed fire. Eighteen years was a very long time. He went ahea
d and drank some ale.
“You are sure she has a full forty years now?” asked Kit, which lifted Robert’s hopes further.
“Forty-one, perhaps, I know not the day of her birth. But I thought she might still be uncommon lovely, if my father seems to think her younger than that.”
He had wondered if Eluned put out rumors that she was younger than she was. But he did not think her vain enough for such a ruse. It was more likely that his father, who had spied her at court a few years ago, saw what he wished to see: a bride young enough that there was a chance she might still give Robert a son and heir. Why more grandsons should matter was beyond Robert. His brother Simon had three sons, and they would inherit everything if Robert died without issue. His father should be happy enough with that.
“I did not see her very closely, but she looks younger than that. She has a noble bearing, too. A man could not be faulted for thinking her royalty, such is her elegance.”
This assurance from Kit sounded quite genuine, which only compelled Robert to drink more of the ale. He should have written to her. A letter, as expected of a groom, full of praise for her beauty and declarations of his joy at their impending wedding. The household cleric had a great number of examples and suggestions for such a letter, as it was apparently a gesture so standard as to be akin to writing out a bill of sale. But it was unthinkable that he would send such practiced and hollow words to her after all this time.
He had written dozens, even hundreds of letters to her over the years – just never on paper. In his mind he had composed them, page after page filled with the mundane events of his life, thoughts and stories and other tidbits reserved for her, couched in words of love. He had not even realized what a habit it had become, this constant but silent narration of his life to her, until he was presented with the opportunity to make the communication real. And then he found too much to say, impossibly overwhelmed, until she was suddenly arriving in a wedding procession this morning. Now. With a regal bearing and teeth like pearls.
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