Moonlight And Shadow

by Isolde Martyn

  By twilight, the Welshmen were into songs that nobody could understand unless they had been born west of Llangurig. The duchess, not to be outdone, brought out her musical ammunition, including Lady Haute—perdition take her! Miles could still taste the charcoal—who was beseeched to take her turn and afterwards surrounded by a little court of moist-eyed, scruffy sons of Cymru.

  “Iesu Grist!” exclaimed someone. “A fynno iechyd, bid lawen,” and they launched into a rollicking song that involved cup bashing. Any translation would have been immodest.

  Above the salt, as talk of politics and gossip grew stale, Myfannwy unwisely sought to explore between the milestones of her future lord’s past. Miles was courteously monosyllabic and glad when she departed for the garderobe. Idle, he scanned the hall and discovered his green-eyed witch seated near the dais in lively dialogue with Emrys the harpist and another Welshman, who had a hurdy-gurdy across his lap. A half dozen other young men, including Ned’s tutor, were gathered like fowls round a feed trough. The schoolmaster had his gaze glued to the creamy curves nestled between the teasing voile and the green velvet of Heloise’s bodice, while Rhys ap Thomas’s secretary had positioned himself behind her and was blatantly surveying the tempting adit between her breasts. Her questionable chaperone in this cluster of idolaters was Bess, the girl’s mouth a mournful, downturned crescent as she watched de la Bere fan Heloise’s glowing cheeks with his hat.

  The Devil take Lady Haute! Those slavering wretches would suppose her a bottle already unstoppered, worth swigging from. Well, he must ensure no one broke the seal or he would never be granted an annulment. Besides, if anyone had the right to initiate her, it was him. Displeasure pricked Miles further when Bess cowardly withdrew, leaving Heloise to the lecherous jackals. Tense as a highway brigand about to make an ambush, he watched for Heloise to leave the hall and then, promising Myfannwy to return, he excused himself from the high table.

  His annoying quarry avoided the passage past the chapel so he was forced to double round and waylay her on the allure, the wooden gallery that led to the nursery. At least he startled her sufficiently to cross herself.

  “I thought you must be a specter,” she remarked, not waiting, and jerked to a halt as he stepped onto her purfiled train to tether her.

  “You will wish I was when this little audience is at an end.”

  Clasping her forearms across her breast like bat’s wings against the chill breeze goosefleshing her, Heloise addressed her words towards the wall. “Oh, surly, are we? I trust you are not making boot marks on the tail of my gown.”

  “Surly! Yes, and more. Much more.” The lady’s throat and neck gleamed white in the hazed moonlight, inviting worship, like a treasure he dared not touch.

  “Oh, dear, was Lady Myfannwy such dreary company, then?” Heloise chided. “What did she want to talk about—sheep?”

  “Sheep!” Miles removed his foot. “By all the saints, why should Myfannwy want to talk about sheep? We were discussing where our wedding—ah—I see your strategy, mistress vixen. You think to divert me from the matter of charcoal and sore ribs.”

  “Divert you, sir?” Free of the leather anchor, Heloise was able to swing round on him. “No! Pray spew out your anger like a gargoyle and then we may go to bed.”

  “Alone or are you expecting a friend?” he answered vehemently. Did she do it deliberately or was it his own fault that the word bed from her lips conjured up the sensuous image of her, bride-naked before him at Bramley? He had spoken of her becoming his mistress in jest but the thought roused him.

  “Are you worried that I lack company? Only think, sir, if you and I were not concerned about an annulment, I could invite you in.”

  A murrain on the witch!

  “Heloise”—Miles suppressed the urge to shake her—“after the way you behaved tonight, I wonder there is not a queue a mile long outside your door.”

  “Explain yourself, sir.” Icy hauteur laced each word and, now that laughter no longer mellowed the air between them, he felt inexplicably bereft.

  “Indeed, I shall, madam.” He swept his sleeves behind him and paced from her, seeking words that would enforce his grave concern and achieve some revenge. “It is true that a married woman may behave with less modesty than an unmarried maiden but your attempts to behave with more worldliness fall rather short of the mark.” He paused, thinking he had couched matters with finesse.

  Her plain answer was a shock. “You mean I need more experience?”

  “Jesu, madam, will you hold your tongue!” He put a hand to his forehead, distraught by her ability to thwart him. “You may be too innocent to be aware that every man in the hall was calculating whether you were fair game tonight. Do you understand what I am saying? I can scarcely make my meaning clearer.”

  “I think you are wrong, for there is no queue, sir.” Her sleeve fluttered as she gestured to the lonely stone walls surrounding them. “Only you.”

  Was she playing games with him? He wished this encounter were lit by cressets so he might read her face. He clenched his jaw and tried again.

  “I offer you warning as a friend. You tread a dangerous path with such behavior, leaving yourself open to . . . to seduction or worse.” He strode away and turned, hands thrust on waist and legs astride. “I am telling you, mistress, if we are to dispense with this despicable marriage of ours, you must remain inviolated.”

  He was aware of her stillness, unable to tell in the darkness whether it was resentment that kept the words back.

  “How very unjust,” she answered with a sigh. “You may whore as you please and I must remain as unassailable as Pen-y-Fan.”

  “You mistake me, madam. I do not whore,” he snarled, his anger up and snapping like a mastiff. He paced from her before he lost control completely and—and throttled her. Why did she have to provoke him so? He had not bruised her ears about this morning and he was trying to point out the dangers and—“And Pen-y-Fan is not unassailable,” he muttered pedantically, adding ambiguously, “I know the way up.”

  With impeccable timing, she allowed the boast to fall awkwardly into the void between them before she remarked with deceptive sweetness, “Indeed, I hear you have explored most of the local hillsides. It is common gossip that the duke keeps whores in Llechfaen and Llanfaes. I suppose you do too. Even Bess thinks you are dangerous but worth consideration. How did Myfannwy take to you?” That drew a ripe oath. “There is no need to swear like that, sir. I am merely observing that—”

  “Mistress, be silent!” Why was it that every time he tried to point out her errors to her, she held up a mirror to show him his faults? “Let me be plain, madam. While you are married to me, you will refrain from dalliance.” At least she was keeping a meek, respectful silence at long last and Miles continued: “I am saying this for your own good. When Holy Church frees us from our oaths, you, lady, must have a reputation as pure as unsullied snow if you wish to find yourself a noble husband. People do not like to be made fools of and, believe me, the world will not look kindly on you for being a maiden and behaving like a . . .” Prick-tease had been the word that came crudely to mind but that was too harsh a term for her vivacious spirits and too foul a word to be used before any lady of gentle upbringing.

  “Like a mistress?” retorted Heloise helpfully and received a growl for an answer. Had she rendered him speechless at last? “How is it you never told me you were to be wed before this morning?” she asked, an edge of anger in her tone.

  “Your father knew.” Miles’s tone was careless. Now that he had finally succeeded in annoying her, his amusement returned. “Jealous?”

  “Oh, excessively. I shall warn your bride you may not keep your vows.” Her voice dropped. “What do you intend to do with me, Cysgod, gag me for the duration?”

  Oh, she had spirit. There was no denying that he might even miss her as a friend by the time he finally managed to catapult her from his life.

  “By all the saints, lady, you and I are in agreement that our marria
ge should be annulled, are we not?” Why would she not look at him? “I have arranged for another letter to be delivered that will enable you to leave—and leave you shall! Must I be plainer? I want you out of here before I break your infuriating neck.”

  “Is Myfannwy what you want?”

  It was her cat arching against his boot cuff out of the darkness that stanched a more honest answer. “Jesu, madam.” He caught his breath. “It is not just a handfast.” He slammed his hand against the wall and turned. Dafydd hissed. “The duke wants this alliance and I want her lands, do you hear me? I will compensate you with a house. . . . in Hereford . . . London . . . next to the pyramids in Egypt if it pleases me better, but utter one word against my betrothal and—” He glanced meaningfully past her at the bailey below. “Remember, I hanged a man this morning.”

  Heloise swallowed, retreating against the wooden planks. “I am not afraid of you.”

  “Well, you should be, sweetheart.”

  “Neither you nor your duke can go against the Church,” she protested. “Our marr—”

  He caught her chin. “Oh, but we can.”

  “How?” she exclaimed, jerking her face away. “Only the Pope can grant an annulment.”

  “An annulment, yes. But a bishop may bring a charge of heresy.”

  Her tone was freezing. “What are you saying, sir?”

  “Just that I would not keep this cat if I were you.”

  His unwanted wife flinched as though Miles had struck her but it was the only way. Gathering up the creature, the girl turned away, hugging it to her heart, stroking its ears as she stared forlornly towards the keep, but even the cat played traitor, and sprang to the wooden boards between them.

  “Going to turn me into a rat?” Miles snarled, hiding his self-loathing.

  “Why should I? You are one already!”

  “Christ’s mercy! Must you reduce everything to feelings? This alliance is—”

  “I . . . do not think it is sensible for us to continue this conversation any longer.” She turned, drawing herself up as straight as a lady on a tomb. “Besides, Sir Miles, as you have so painstakingly pointed out in such delicate language, if you, sir, are seen talking to me here, it will unquestionably ruin my reputation beyond redempt—”

  “I will see you in Hell!” he exclaimed with feeling and returned to the feast.

  MILES SPENT THE FOLLOWING DAY BLISSFULLY HUNTING WITH the duke and his guests, but on his return Bess waylaid him. It seemed that Lady Haute planned to visit the town with the harpist. Damn her! So, before the fires were covered for the night and all the castle gates were bolted, Miles, clad in homespun and a black cloak that enveloped him from head to heels, unlatched the postern and stole forth behind his quarry.

  In the April dusk Miles could almost map his way by the odors: the Honddu carrying the ordure of the castle to the Usk, the perfume of the violets thriving upon the bank, the cloying scents used by the chandlers at North Gate, then other stinks wafting from the town: the cooking smokes of sea coal and firewood, the uglier smell of boiling meat, fresh dung congealing between the uneven cobblestones, rotting refuse mashed by cart wheels, and, at Water Gate, the clean smell of planed wood from the joiner’s yard.

  But there was also the earthy scent of rain and it was splashing down by the time Miles reached Morgannok Street at the far end of the town. The downpour reduced the sound of his footsteps on the cobbles and let him follow closer. The old man set his arm on Heloise Ballaster’s and drew her into the courtyard of an alehouse, but by the time Miles had traversed the puddled rear of the tavern, they had vanished.

  Godsakes, he cursed as he let himself out through the wattle fence into a laneway, he should leave the rebellious wench to her peril, save that he did not want some lout fumbling up the foolish innocent’s skirts.

  Finding an overhang for shelter, he halted. Above the rain, he heard the river lapping close, but where, ye saints, was the plaguey music? What now? Perhaps St. Cecily was being charitable, for the shower abated and a poignant cascade of music from Emrys’s harp lured him along the sandstone wall that edged the alley. At the third gate he tried the latch.

  “Pwy sy na?” snorted a woman’s voice.

  “Rhyddid i Cymryu,” he murmured. “Cerddoriaeth uned ni.”

  Satisfied, the woman led him through a passageway, dark as Purgatory and stinking of stale urine and spilt ale, and down stone steps into a hot cellar lit by naught but a blazing fire. It was some sort of forge. The smoke stung his eyes before he was able to make out a dozen or so people perched on sacks or crates. All Welsh, he guessed. One fellow cradled a stretched hide with jingles in its frame, another nursed a viola. Ruddy in the flickering flames, Emrys’s thicket brows and flowing hair, rivuleting over his bared forearms, gave him the mien of the Welsh god Govannon the weapon maker. The slender shadow beside him, sensibly hooded, must be Heloise. Save for a man and woman conversing in whispers to his left, they were all listening to the singer, a huge man in his forties, sweaty-faced, black-maned, and fiercely bearded, with a belly that overstretched his belt, and an alepot in his hand.

  Miles slid into the darkest corner but did not hesitate to intercept the leather bottle being passed around. The contents nearly ripped the inside from his throat.

  Despite his quarryman’s complexion, the singer’s voice was wondrously rich. His huge rib cage, built for resonance, threw out so ardent a song of reprisal against the English that Miles, whose Welsh was keen enough to understand most of it, felt his blood run cold.

  “I will wield the blade of Cyffin,

  I will deal with my bare hands

  A hurt to that two-faced town yonder.

  From the town of Rhos at dawn,

  By nightfall to dark Chester.

  Let me kill, if my day arrives

  With Dafydd’s sword, two thousand.”

  As the last verse ended to cheers and laughter, the only Englishman in their midst was rigid, anxious to leave. A rebellion? Christ!

  “Pah, Lewis,” taunted someone. “Why brawl over an English whore when there are plenty of pretty tits in Wales to fondle!” Miles reddened, both thankful that Heloise could not understand their crudity, and ashamed of his suspicions; there might be treason but this song was merely some personal feud.

  The viola player was urging Emrys back into the firelight. God’s rood, the old man was gifted! Just the first soul-wrenching, plaintive chords banished the bawdy laughter and the crackling of the logs upon the fire. The mountains and woods of Wales surged into Miles’s consciousness. He could hear the rain in the song lashing the leaves. Like a mythical hero, he strode beside the singer down the slopes and stood beside the splashing streams.

  “Not like the growling curse,

  That makes the great tide

  And brings the wintry cold.

  “Not like the scolding words,

  That make miry torrents of the streams

  And a full roar in the river’s throat.

  “Oh, why is the day so raw and angry?

  Speak gently and bid the sky

  No more to glower,

  Nor cast a veil across the moon.”

  Setting down his harp, Emrys cleared his throat, breaking the spell that bound them to their memories. “I have a surprise,” he announced. “I brought with me a young woman from the castle.”

  “Surprise! Emrys, you old dotard,” muttered someone. “Will you get us hanged?”

  “No, rest you, am I a block, an ass? I tell you she understands not one word of our speech but she sings like an angel. You must hear her.

  “Uncover. Free your hair,” he said in English, rising to take his guest by the wrist. At least she was refusing. “Be yourself, bach,” Emrys was saying, setting back her hood with a bardlike authority. “It matters not if you are wife or maid, lad or lady. All are equal among my people, wel di.”

  As if she were under an enchantment, Heloise removed the coif and shook her braids free like an elfin maid for all to see. Silver
hair tumbled over her plain russet kirtle like living metal in the fire’s light. Did she not understand the danger? At night men are spellcast but in the day they see, they remember, differently.

  “Sing, arianlais, as I taught you.”

  Her voice, husky at first, warmed to a beautiful clarity, the words powerful and wrenching, a trumpet to arms against her countrymen.

  The lyrics were Welsh but did she understand? For she sang it so poignantly that Miles felt a sadness to choke, because he knew the words in his own tongue—the hatred and the hope:

  “Powys, a land, liberal, lovely, fruitful,

  Generosity’s sweet drinking horn of bright taverns,

  Oh, it was a pleasant orchard

  Before a youth, rich in wisdom, was slain by a blue sword.

  Now it is, alas, for widowhood,

  Hawk’s land, without a nightingale of song.”

  “More!” Slapping their thighs, the musicians were openhanded in praise. Even Heloise, cheeks pink as gillyflowers, understood. She shook her head and rose from the singer’s stool, but she let them press a cup into her hand, and was both thirsty and exultant enough to gulp it down.

  “Un arall? Iechyd da!” Laughing, they filled it again and the bard called Lewis heaved himself back and launched into a ribald drinking song. Others joined in—the man with the wooden flute and the young tabor player—but their eyes, like everyone else’s, kept flickering back to the Englishwoman. The nervous sipping betrayed her naivete though she seemed at ease, smiling as they teased her in Welsh. Two of the men grew lewd in their remarks and Emrys, although his voice was calm so as not to panic their visitor, sat down beside her protectively, hissing rebukes.