by Speer, Flora
It was raining. It always seemed to be raining, or at least misty. Water dripped off every leaf and twig and the thick moss squelched beneath their feet. With each step she took, cold, muddy water oozed through the shredded soles of her clumsy shoes. Meredith had no idea where they were. She only knew that they had been walking for more days than even Aunt Branwen could count, and she was cold and hungry and so tired she wanted only to curl up and sleep forever in the shelter of one of those big, moss-covered rocks that continually blocked their path.
She did not see the man at first. Meredith trudged on mindlessly until she realized Branwen had stopped. She looked back to see if something was wrong with her aunt, then followed the line of Branwen’s gaze.
He stood beside a tree, watching them. He was tall and very thin and he was old. His flowing white hair and beard and soft grey robe seemed to her at first to be some illusion of the thick, drifting mist. Outlines were oddly indistinct in this fog-wrapped countryside, but after a few moments her blurred sight sharpened and Meredith saw that he was real. His deep-lined face was tense, his pale grey eyes were fixed on Branwen, who stared at him as though he were some vision from one of the ancient tales she so often told to Meredith. Then Branwen spoke, using words Meredith, though she did not understand them all, recognized as her aunt’s native tongue.
The old man answered in a voice deep and quiet, like the gentle breeze in the treetops on an April evening. Hearing that voice, Meredith felt fear and weariness melting away. Whoever he was, this man spoke her Aunt Branwen’s language, and surely no one so aged and frail could be dangerous. The man raised a bony, blue-veined hand in a graceful gesture, then turned and moved off into the mist. Meredith blinked, and he was gone. Branwen took her hand.
“Come,” she said to her niece. “He will give us shelter.”
“Who is he?”
Branwen did not reply, but led Meredith in the direction the man had taken.
“I can’t see anything,” Meredith protested. “Where is he?”
“Use your eyes, child. He’s there.” Branwen pointed to a faint movement, an eddy in the fog in front of them.
“We are lost, Aunt Branwen. Is this a magical forest?”
“We are not lost. This is Wales. We are home.”
If this was Wales, Meredith was not certain it was worth the journey. The heavens opened wider and the rain fell harder. Meredith and Branwen were soon dripping water off nose and chin and hair, dripping like the trees and bushes around them. Meredith had never been so cold and wet. And still Aunt Branwen, holding tightly to her hand, followed a guide Meredith could not see. But then, Meredith was not really looking. She kept her eyes on the ground, trying to avoid roots and rocks and fallen branches, and when she thought at all, it was only of her own misery.
She could still hear the rain drumming relentlessly, but the sound was behind her and she was no longer being pelted with drops of cold water. Meredith raised her head.
They were in a cave. Her throat constricted with a moment’s fear as Branwen led her around a corner. Meredith relaxed a little at the homey sight of a fire set in a hole scooped out of the cave floor. A natural cleft in the rock above the firepit allowed the smoke to escape. Over the flames a cauldron swung from a tripod, its contents bubbling softly and sending forth a heady herbal fragrance. Above and around her curved a high, smooth wall of grey stone, flecked here and there with some silvery substance that caught the firelight and glittered when she moved. The chamber was so large that she did not feel the least bit uncomfortable, though she sensed there was a hill or mountain above her, its great weight pressing into the earth.
Breaking away from Branwen, Meredith stumbled to the fire and held out her hands toward the warmth. She heard Branwen speaking, using that soft, half-familiar language again, and the strange man’s whisper-quiet voice in reply.
“Meredith, take off your wet clothes, child.” Without thought, Meredith did as she was told. Branwen wrapped a warm blanket around her. Meredith wiped her nose with the back of her hand and moved closer to the fire’s heat. The old man had been doing something to the cauldron, and now he handed Meredith a wooden bowl into which he had ladled chunks of vegetables and thick, steaming broth.
Meredith sank down beside the fire and began to eat, pausing only when the old man brought her a wedge of brown bread, which she used to sop up the last of the juices in her bowl, polishing the sides of it with a piece of crust before popping it into her mouth and licking her fingers.
The man had watched her all that time, but Meredith did not mind. She was over her first fear of him. His ancient face was kind, and his pale grey eyes were soft, so soft, misty and gentle. She could not tear her eyes from his. A beguiling humming sound filled her mind, relaxing her tenseness. Fear, hunger, cold, aching feet and tired muscles, all faded from her consciousness. She was warm and dry and well-fed, and, best of all, safe at last. She was certain of that. She began to feel sleepy. Her eyelids drooped, her head nodded.
She roused herself once to look around for Branwen, and found her aunt robed in a grey gown identical to the man’s. It apparently belonged to him for Branwen had rolled up the sleeves and bloused the body of the robe over a belt so she would not trip on the hem. Under the fold of the gown at Branwen’s waist, Meredith could see the gleam of the tiny jeweled dagger her aunt always wore. It was, Branwen had told her, all she had left of the treasures that had once filled her old home in Wales. In the village and on their journey, she had kept it next to her skin, like a secret talisman, but now she wore it openly, a badge of rank.
Branwen finished drying and combing out her dark curls and came to sit beside Meredith. Her pale face glowed and her dark eyes shone as she took the bowl of stew and the spoon their host offered her and began to eat.
“This man is Rhys ap Daffydd,” Branwen said between bites. “He is a distant cousin of mine, and when I was a girl he was my teacher. This is his home. He will let us stay with him.”
“I thought we were going to your old home, Aunt Branwen.”
Branwen spoke to Rhys again, then turned to Meredith.
“Afoncaer and Tynant both belong to the Normans, but Rhys says they do not come here, into this part of the forest. There are few of them, and too many of their men have died by Welsh arrows when .they strayed too far from the fortress. It is safe enough. We will stay here.”
Meredith nodded, too sleepy to ask more questions. Branwen’s arm was across her shoulders, lifting her, helping her to walk the few steps to where a pallet lay close against the cave wall. Meredith tumbled onto the pallet, pulled the blanket around herself, tucked her bare feet snuggly under the lower edge of the warm wool, and closed her eyes. She could hear Branwen and Rhys talking, talking, in the beautiful musical language of their homeland. The sounds drifted together, blurred softly, and faded into silence.
She lay on her side, her eyes closed, still half asleep. There was something warm and alive and gently vibrating pressed against her chest. Smooth fur rubbed across her chin, startling her into full wakefulness. Meredith found herself staring into the wide blue eyes of a small white cat.
Meredith lay very still. Cats were a normal part of the domestic scene, necessary to keep rodents away from food supplies, and she was accustomed to those ordinary creatures. This cat was not ordinary. In the part of Mercia where she had lived all her life, people believed that white cats were witches’ pets, and harming one was unlucky. The people of Alfric’s village had sometimes called Branwen a witch. Meredith shivered. The cat watched her with a fixed gaze until Meredith nervously crossed herself. The cat blinked but did not disappear as the devil’s animal ought to have done, and after a moment it put its spotless white head down on one forepaw and went to sleep. Afraid to disturb it, Meredith looked anxiously about, hoping to find Branwen.
She was alone. The fire still burned brightly, its light casting flickering gold across the dry, smooth cave walls that stretched to a high dome above her. The silvery flecks in the roc
k glittered. In front of Meredith and to the right she could see daylight beyond the fold in the rock through which she and her companions had entered the cave. On the opposite side of the entrance, the cave stretched away into inky black nothingness. Blackness, a cave, a strange cat. She should have been afraid. Instead, she felt safe, though she did not know why.
The cat stood up, stretched, and stalked off toward the cave entrance. Meredith pulled the blanket more closely around herself and looked for a bowl and ladle. The mouthwatering smell coming from the cauldron reminded her that she had been hungry for days.
“You are awake.” Branwen came around the fold of rock at the entrance. “It’s after mid-day. Here.” She found the bowl Meredith had been looking for and served up a helping of stew.
“There was a cat here,” Meredith said. “It was white.”
“Yes.” Branwen did not seem the least concerned. “It belongs to Rhys.”
“Is he a witch?”
“No.” Branwen laughed at Meredith’s concern. “Nor am I. That is only what ignorant fools call people they do not understand. When we lived in Lord Ranaulf’s village I was hated and feared because I knew ways to heal and cure that the others did not. They were beginning to look at you in the same way. It is good that we left there, though I am sorry for what happened to Alfric. At least he never beat me as most men beat their wives. Perhaps he was afraid of me, too.” Branwen sighed. “Alfric should have come with us.”
“Who is Rhys ap Daffydd? Why does he live in the woods?”
“I told you last night, he is my cousin. He lost his home when the Normans came. Many folk did. He has lived here, in this cave, for many years. The Welsh are different from the Normans in that they may not all remember the old ways, but they respect those who do. Rhys has spent his life acquiring the old wisdom. Our countrymen who live nearby come to Rhys for medicine and for advice, and sometimes just to hear him speak or sing, and they bring him gifts of bread or vegetables from their farms, or clothing. They will not betray him to the Normans. Nor will they betray us, if we are under his protection.”
“We will stay here,” Meredith said, feeling the comfortable sound of the words after so much traveling. She watched Branwen nod contentedly.
“Rhys has agreed to it,” Branwen said. “He is growing older. I can help him in his work. Together we will teach you all we know. Even though you are not Welsh by blood you have the ability to learn, and when we are gone you will carry on the ancient skills.”
Meredith did not question Branwen’s decision. She trusted the aunt who had been like a mother to her. She would do as Branwen wished.
She never entirely lost her awe of Rhys, though she soon came to love him. To her youthful eyes there was something strange and wonderful about the elderly man. He came and went silently, often staying away from the cave for days. In his absences, Branwen dealt with the sick or injured who came there for aid. They accepted Branwen, at first because of Rhys, and later for her own skills, and no one ever questioned Meredith’s position as assistant to her elders.
Meredith eagerly learned all Branwen and Rhys could teach her. She had a gift for healing, an instinctive understanding of which medicine to use for each ailment, and she used her strong, soothing hands to set broken bones or sew up wounds, and after a few years, in spite of her youth, she, too, was known as a healer.
Healing was not all she learned. She came to know the forest well, and like Branwen willingly gave up eating meat out of respect and affection for the creatures who lived in it.
Rhys was a natural teacher. He had traveled to far-distant lands in his youth, had seen and done much before returning to his homeland. He spoke several languages. He had yearned for a willing pupil, and now he had found one. He began instructing Meredith as he had once taught Branwen. She absorbed it all.
“But not French,” Branwen said. “I won’t have Meredith learning that cursed language.”
“It is the Normans you dislike, not their words,” Rhys said in his quiet way. “Meredith will need to know French, and so will you. The Normans are here, Branwen. They will not go away. It is easier to deal with them if you speak their language.”
Branwen gave in to Rhys, as she usually did, and the French lessons continued, and now Branwen learned, too.
Reynaud
Despite Rhys’s assurances and Meredith’s comfortable sense of safety, their situation was not completely secure. The year before Meredith and Branwen arrived at Rhys’s cave, King William Rufus had made a vain second attempt to conquer all of Wales, and then had vented his frustration at his failure by laying waste a large portion of the countryside. When he finally withdrew into England again, he left several of his henchmen behind on the border to strengthen Norman fortifications in those few areas he had managed to take from the Welsh. Lionel of Adderbury was created Baron of Afoncaer and ordered to rebuild the burned-out wooden structure into a strong stone fortress.
Unwilling to use the income from his vast estates in England to finance the work, Lord Lionel had imposed heavy exactions on the Welsh who lived on his lands. He had brought with him a group of dispossessed Saxon peasants to settle in the village outside his castle walls, and these foreigners, exempt from Lionel’s taxes and much favored by him, created chronic problems with the native folk. The specter of revolt hung over Lord Lionel’s domain. When Lionel, returning from a trip to Normandy that had ended in a violent quarrel with the king, tightened his grip and increased taxes even more, the Welsh believed they had no choice left. The execution, at Lionel’s order, of a popular young leader provided the final spark to set Welsh defiance ablaze.
In mid July of the year of Our Lord 1100, a small band of determined Welsh rebels killed many of the despised Saxon settlers, stormed the castle, pulled down part of the uncompleted stone outer wall to get inside, and then murdered both Lord Lionel and his chief engineer. As though appalled at their own actions, the rebels vanished into the forests, never to be found.
Those who lived near Afoncaer but had not taken part in the violence waited in terror for the inevitable royal reprisal. It never came. It was several weeks before they learned why.
On August second of that year, William Rufus, the wicked king, hated and feared and loathed, died, mysteriously slain by an arrow while hunting in the New Forest. Killed on Thursday afternoon and no one punished for it, the rumors said, and buried in haste on Friday morning. On the following Sunday, Henry, the first of that name, and by all accounts innocent of any part in his older brother’s death, had been consecrated king at Westminster. No one knew what to expect from the new king. It was fervently hoped he would be better than the last one.
A year passed and no more king’s men came to Afoncaer. People began to relax their concern, some even forgot about the revolt. Life went on. A second year passed, and now Meredith was seventeen years old, devoted to her healing work, content to live with Aunt Branwen and old Rhys, and only occasionally aware of an odd stirring of need, an unexplained longing for something, she knew not what. Since she had no friends of her own age, she put it down to loneliness, which in part it was, and applied herself more seriously to learning all she could of the healing arts.
And then, after so much time, came a fresh set of rumors. A new lord had been chosen to come to Afoncaer, to finish rebuilding the castle, and to restore the English king’s peace and justice. The Welsh, knowing what that meant, began to hide the few treasures Lord Lionel had left them.
Chapter 13
Late July, AD 1100
Isabel received the news of Lionel’s death calmly.
“My lady,” Father Herbert said when the king’s messenger was gone, “You must be brave. It is not as though you and he…as though he were…that is, I know how much you have suffered.”
“He was my husband,” Isabel said, rising from her chair by the hearth. Around her the empty space of the great hall of Adderbury echoed; the scrape of the chair moving backward across the stone floor sounded unnaturally loud to her
shocked senses. “He was … he was Lionel.”
She could think of nothing more to say about him. She recalled the first time she had seen him, how handsome he had been, her dreamed-about, soon-to-be husband, and the foolish young girl’s fantasies she had thought he would make come true. If only he had been the knight she had dreamed of. She had no tears for the bloated, foolish sycophant he had become, the man who had tried to rule the king by flattery and corruption and had been thwarted, whose ambition had reached to high rank and failed. Poor Lionel. Not one tear would fall.
“He was buried at an abbey in Wales?” She watched Father Herbert nod assent to her question.
“Llangwilym Abbey, an hour or two away from Afoncaer. His body was taken there, or so the messenger said. My lady, I am not at all surprised you do not remember what the man told us. The shock of such news, so unexpected…”
“Oh, I remember well enough, Father. So, William wants me at court, does he? Without even giving me time to mourn. He wants Adderbury, Father Herbert, and Afoncaer, too. All are his now, by his own laws, and I … I belong to King William also. What will become of me now?”
“I will go with you, my lady,” the priest volunteered. “I will not leave you alone.”
“And I shall be glad of your support. Would you find Joan and send her to me? I should give her instructions for the packing.” It wasn’t only the orders for Joan. She wanted to be rid of him, just for a while. He meant well, but he could drive her mad with his concern for her and his constant talking. She needed to think.