Allegiance

by Markland, Anna

  He silently thanked his parents for the open way in which they had educated their children about the coupling of men and women. What to do he had learned from the women he had bedded. Attitude and beliefs had come from his parents.

  She nodded, but still looked apprehensive. He bent his head to suckle one pebbled nipple while continuing to fondle the other.

  “Rhys,” she gasped again, clutching his shoulders and arching her back to such a degree he had to free one hand to support her head. He suckled her rhythmically, changing from one breast to the other. The pleasure was intense, and this woman was his wife. His forever. He could spend the rest of his life with his mouth on her beautiful breasts. He would die a happy man.

  He eased her off her knees onto her back, continuing to suckle and squeeze her nipples. She had already opened her legs without his encouragement, intensifying the ache in his groin. It was the first glimpse of the haven he sought. Licking his lips, he let his hand wander slowly over her belly and down to the golden curls of her mons. “Annalise,” he whispered. “Remember, you can trust me.”

  She looked into his eyes and nodded. He resumed his suckling and his fingers found her swollen bud.

  She was gasping for breath now, chanting his name like a mantra.

  He stroked rhythmically. “Let the feelings come.”

  She clung to him as the first release tore through her. She let go a lovely, guttural scream, digging her heels into the bed, her head tossing back and forth on the bolster, her hands on her own breasts now.

  “Rhys,” she whispered.

  Tears welled in her eyes and his heart skipped a beat. He was elated to be the one to give this beautiful woman her first experience of bodily pleasure. “It gets better, Annalise. I’ll show you.”

  He lapped her nipples and she responded by once more opening her legs. Confident she would still be wet, he slipped his finger inside her folds to make sure.

  “Rhys, mon Dieu!” she cried as spasms racked her body again.

  He was done for then, needing desperately to be inside her, to surrender to the grip of her pulsating sheath. He grasped the root of his shaft, positioned it at her entry and pushed carefully, feeling the barrier. “Hold me tight. This is where it will be painful.”

  She clung to him as he thrust through the gate. He expected her to scream, but she did not. Had she fainted? Was the pain too much? He bit his lip, holding his breath, waiting, bathed in her wet warmth. She groaned faintly and her hips ground into him. His heart soared and his shaft throbbed. An involuntary groan of pleasure escaped him. He withdrew, then plunged in to the hilt, rejoicing in the wild abandon with which she now matched his thrusts, until he felt the white heat of his seed erupt from his body. He lost coherent thought as he tumbled into rapture and vaguely heard her cry out when he collapsed on top of her.

  When he recovered his wits, she was lazily threading her fingers through his hair. It felt good. He raised up on one elbow and smiled. “I hope it wasn’t too painful for you.”

  She shook her head, and returned the smile.

  “You’re a woman now, Annalise, and what a woman you are. That was magnificent. Thank you.”

  “I thank you mi—Rhys,” she stammered. “Was it painful for you?”

  He smiled and kissed her forehead. “That kind of pain I would willingly suffer every day of my life.”

  * * *

  “I didn’t know. I never had—” Annalise was lost, and completely exhausted by the stress of the day and the exhilaration she had experienced. Now, her husband had risen from the bed and was carefully cleansing her body, kissing her thighs as he removed the proof of her lost virginity. She watched in amazement as he strode back to the basin and washed his body. He seemed perfectly at ease with his nakedness. What a magnificent creature he was, all lean muscle, a powerful yet gentle man.

  For the first time, she paid attention to the Celtic knots tattooed like armbands into his biceps. It was a sharp reminder of the differences in their cultures.

  They were going to live in Wales, and if she had no friend there, how would she survive? Better to be friends with her husband rather than his enemy. She already knew she could not hate him as she should. Perhaps, she would survive Wales with such a man.

  He was certainly passionate and had brought previously unknown sensations and pleasures to her body. Since their first meeting, an ache had tugged deep within her that she had never felt in the wildest imaginings of her chivalrous knight.

  When Rhys asked if he could undo the bows, she experienced a strange flood of wetness between her legs. No one but her maid had ever seen her naked before, and she found his gaze unsettling.

  She would be his friend, but would guard her heart. He claimed to be a trustworthy man, and she sensed that was true. But she must never forget why he married her. Her treacherous body had responded to his for some reason beyond her understanding. To fall in love with him and not to have that love returned would be more than she could bear.

  “You look serious. What are you thinking?” he teased as he came back to bed.

  * * *

  “I was thinking I enjoyed that very much,” she said, her blush deepening.

  “I would never have guessed,” he teased, caressing her hair. He wanted to feel those tresses wrapped around every part of his body, but an insistent worry warned him not to care for this young woman too much. Suddenly, he felt the weight of the beads around his neck. Should he give the necklace to her just as his father had bestowed it on the woman he loved? He hesitated. It would break his heart if he fell in love with her and she didn’t love him in return. Better to wait.

  “We should sleep for a while now and then perhaps later—”

  “How often do people do this?” she asked innocently.

  “As often as they like,” he replied, drawing her back against his chest, cupping her breasts in his hands.

  “Your breasts are beautiful. I’m a fortunate man.”

  He fell asleep immediately, utterly content.

  Powwydd

  On the morrow, they acknowledged the welcoming cheers of the throng breaking their fast in the Great Hall. His twin brothers had left to escort their mother back to Wales since she was concerned for her husband’s health. However, his sisters came to give a kiss of welcome.

  “You’re up early,” the Prioress teased. “We assumed you would be much later to rise.”

  Rhys smirked. “Carys, your sister shows altogether too much knowledge about what a man and his bride do in the marriage chamber.”

  Myfanwy laughed, a warm laugh he remembered from their childhood. “I may be a Prioress, little brother, but I’m not dead.”

  Smiling, Carys took Annalise off to greet others, and Myfanwy turned to Rhys. “You look happy, Rhys.”

  “I am happy,” he replied truthfully.

  His sister’s face took on a stern expression, made all the more severe by her coif and veil. “Remember what our parents have always told us, there is more to happiness than passion. You must make room in your heart for love. But here am I lecturing you and I’m just a lonely nun.”

  Before he could reply, she went on, “Speaking of parents, I hear Father isn’t well.”

  He pursed his lips and scratched his head. “Yes, I know. I hope he improves before we get back to Powwydd. I want him to meet Annalise.”

  * * *

  The distance from Warwick to the llys where Rhys and his siblings had spent most of their childhood was not great, but the terrain was difficult. They rode through muddy fields and over treacherous rocky paths. The journey, and the apprehension she felt at the unknown fate that awaited her, exhausted Annalise. Rhys was considerate of her needs as they travelled and sensitive to her fears. He told her stories of his parents and siblings. Never having known loving family circumstances, she was comforted by his tales. However, she sensed he was nervous about something. They rode in silence for quite a way until he said, “Annalise, I love my home at Llys Powwydd, but it’s not—well, it�
�s not really a castle.”

  Her heart fluttered. “You said it was a royal court.”

  “It is,” he replied immediately. “But you Normans have been building castles in your homeland for generations, whereas here, my llys is more like a manor.”

  “I don’t understand, Rhys.”

  “The Welsh royal courts, we call them llysoed, are comfortable, and Powwydd is protected by a sturdy wall and two moats, but most of it isn’t made of stone.”

  She was plucking up courage to ask what they were made of when he carried on. “The hall, the neuadd, is made of timbers, though the footings are dry stonework. But many of the other buildings, where we have our chambers and storage barns are made of earth and straw. It sounds—”

  She shook her head and reached to put a hand on his arm. “Rhys, my father spent many years ruining our family castle at Vymont. I am used to not having every comfort.”

  Rhys smiled. “But I want you to have every comfort. We are improving things gradually, learning from you Normans, ironically enough. And you can be assured there is always a roaring fire in the hearth to warm your bones. As well we have ty bach.”

  She wondered why his face had reddened and looked at him curiously. He winked. “I believe you Normans call it the garderobe.”

  Now it was her turn to blush. “I suppose I should learn that word first. Just in case.”

  He laughed and nodded. By now, they had reached the causeway that straddled the first moat. It seemed to be oval-shaped and black as night. She shuddered at its unknown depths and was relieved when they reached the flat-topped bank that separated it from the inner moat, also oval, but not as menacing. She could see that most of the roof of—what had Rhys called it?—the llys—was thatched.

  By the time she entered his home, she had warmed to him considerably, but was afraid to admit her feelings. A successful man of the world such as Rhys would never fall in love with her. Important men sought his opinion. He was a leader among his people, the son of a Welsh legend. She was the daughter of an impoverished, Norman drunkard.

  When they arrived, stable boys took their horses. She could tell Rhys was content to be home, but concerned for his father. He took her straightaway to meet his sire. They found him sitting by the hearth in the neuadd, wrapped in a blanket, Rhonwen hovering at his side. His breathing was labored, and despite the blanket and the warmth of the flames, he looked cold. But he was still a powerful presence. Annalise recognized instantly from whom her husband had inherited his features and his character.

  Rhys embraced his father. The elderly man reached up and fingered Rhys’s beads, then smiled. Rhys clasped his hand over his father’s, then spoke proudly in English. She was grateful he recognised she would be completely lost in Welsh. “Father, please greet my wife, Annalise de Vymont.”

  He placed her hand in his father’s. Rhodri took it and she felt the warmth emanating from her father-by-marriage.

  “Annalise,” he rasped, breathing heavily. “You’ve come a great distance to make my son happy.”

  “Milord Rhodri,” she replied in her halting English, her eyes filling with tears as she saw a glimpse of her future. “I am wife to your son. I will serve him, and be the mother of his children.”

  Rhodri shook his head, drew her closer and whispered, “But will you love him, daughter? Rhys deserves to be loved.”

  She turned her head, gripped his still-powerful hand and whispered, “I am learning to love him, milord.”

  Rhodri relaxed visibly.

  She stole a glance at Rhys, who looked puzzled.

  His father turned to Annalise and whispered, “But you haven’t told him that, have you?”

  She gazed into the jade green eyes of the aged warrior and reluctantly shook her head. “It’s too complicated,” she whispered, amazed she could share such confidences with an elderly man she had just met. He had spent his life fighting Normans, but had said not one word of recrimination that she was a Norman.

  “It’s never too complicated,” he said. “You’ll take care of my beloved son.”

  His head fell forward. Had he fallen asleep? She extracted her hand from his grip, awed by the power of this dying man’s aura.

  Rhys took her hand, kissed it and led her from the room. “What did you tell him that made him happy?” he asked.

  She felt the flush spread across her face. “Er, nothing. I gave him, how do you say? Un petit baiser.”

  Rhys looked at her strangely. “A little kiss?”

  She smiled. “Oui. I thought it only polite.”

  * * *

  Rhonwen moved from the shadows to tend the warrior she loved more than life. He lifted his head slowly and turned to her. Barely able to draw breath, he rasped, “Rhonwen, you’ve shared my difficult life…and given me more pleasure and fulfillment than any man has a right to. I’m sorry to leave you…but I’m content that Myfanywy has found her calling as a Prioress. Carys is happily married to Baudoin de Montbryce. Who would have thought of that possibility—our daughter, a countess? And Rhun and Rydderch…well, who can predict with two such flamboyant redheads? But I’ve worried about Rhys. He’s very much your son, Rhonwen. I’m confident he has found a woman who loves him. I can die content.”

  Rhonwen wiped away her tears. “Rhodri, you’ve been the reason for my existence since we first met many years ago. I was your captive, and I’ve remained captivated by your love since then. If you leave me now, I won’t be far behind. It’s our destiny to be together for eternity.”

  “Kiss me, my lovely Rhonwen,” were his last words.

  Rhonwen died a few short days later.

  Their last wish was to be interred in the burial chamber near the fortress of Cadair Berwyn, where they had met.

  Cadair Berwyn

  Awed by the mountain fortress of Cadair Berwyn, buffeted by the bitter wind that penetrated even the furs and blankets, Annalise stood with Rhys and his grieving family. Building such a stronghold on the edge of a precipice must have taken considerable perseverance. The wild, majestic scenery took her breath away.

  It fell to Rhys as the eldest son to deliver his parents’ eulogy. “Rhodri ap Owain ap Dafydd ap Gwilym was a warrior until the day he died,” he declared. “His passion for Wales never abated and neither did his selfless love for Rhonwen Dda. The people of Powwydd loved my mother for the faithful and loving healer she was to them. Many owe their lives to her skills and talents.”

  After the burial, Annalise listened to her husband and his brother-by-marriage tell the tales of Rhonwen’s life-and-death struggle with the evil Morwenna, of Rhodri’s slaying of the would-be assassin Phillippe de Giroux, of the courage of Mabelle de Montbryce as she birthed Baudoin’s sister in the remote mountain hideaway. She remembered being told at her wedding of Baudoin’s kidnapping with his mother and Rhys’s mother. It seemed the twists and turns of fate had intertwined the two families since then. She developed a new understanding of Carys, Countess of Ellesmere, and her husband.

  Rhys felt the loss of his parents keenly and Annalise held him close as he grieved. Her own father’s death had been a relief. She and her brother cared little for each other. She pondered in her heart how to generate such love and loyalty among the children she would bear to Rhys. It was foreign to her family experience and she was married to a man who did not love her. Now that he was Prince of Powwydd, she would be the chatelaine of his castle, his llys. She could barely speak their language and doubted his people would welcome being ruled by a Norman.

  Domestic Squabbles

  Rhys heard a commotion in the kitchens. He and Annalise had arrived home from Cadair Berwyn only two days before. He was glad to be back in Powwydd, but grief hung in the air. His father and mother had been dearly loved.

  He grew nervous when he realized it was his wife’s voice he heard. Upon entering the hot, smoky confines of the foodhouse, situated between the neuadd and the outer buildings, he had to force down a grin. Beside the huge kiln, Emrys Cook stood like a statue, gazing
at the ceiling, teeth gritted, hands on hips, his fat face even redder than usual.

  Annalise was holding forth in her language, gesticulating wildly. Two scullery maids looked on, their mouths open, eyes darting from Emrys to their new mistress and back again.

  Rhys took a deep breath, hoping he was enough of a diplomat to handle this skirmish. A lot was riding on it.

  Annalise stopped in mid-sentence when she saw him. She was breathing heavily, her breasts rising and falling.

  He licked his lips when she put her hands on her hips and opened her mouth. He strode towards her, hands outstretched. “Can I help?”

  She closed her mouth.

  Emrys looked at him and opened his.

  Rhys shot him a glare and shook his head slightly.

  Cook closed his mouth.

  Annalise took a deep breath and gripped his hands. “I wanted to give some suggestions about improving the food served here, but this—this—man does not wish to listen.”

  Rhys looked at Emrys, who had resumed his examination of the ceiling, arms folded tightly across his chest, then looked back at his wife. This was a delicate situation, and he had better not laugh. “Dear wife, explain to me what it is you want, and I’ll tell him in his language. He has been the cook here for many years, and his father before him.”

  Annalise glanced at Emrys and pouted, her eyes wide. “His food is bland. If he was to add herbs and spices, it would improve.”

  Clearing his throat, Rhys turned to the cook. “The Lady of Powwydd compliments you on the quality of the food we enjoy here, Emrys. However, she has a delicate digestion and requires certain herbs and spices be added to the food to alleviate her distress.”