by C. C. Wiley
His thick neck swelled with indignation, but Dafydd did not dignify the insult. He held his eyes on the crowd. A quiet, knowing smile lifted the corner of his lips as he let his gaze touch each and every man.
“Aye,” he said softly, “six years ago my lady wife and I paid the greatest price of all. If our first son yet lived, he would have reached ten and eight year.” He looked about the room, letting his eyes fall where Terrwyn stood. “Too late, I learned my error in judgment. Today we do not join forces with the rebel Owain Glyndwr. This time, we show the English soldiers we intend obedience to King Henry’s crown.” Dafydd’s voice grew despite the flutter of uncertainly in the room. “We will let them draw near. Encourage them to raise a horn of ale. Then we will know their intentions before they take place.”
The crowd erupted with alarm. Angry slurs turned into pushing and shoving until there was no safe place to stand.
“Silence!” Dafydd shouted. “My decision is made.”
He turned to leave and stopped.
“Dafydd.” Smithy gripped his shoulder, stalling him from vacating the tavern. “You cannot mean for us to dine beside them.” His hold tightened. “We’ve lost too much, man.”
“Would you have a better solution?”
“You ask too much from us,” Smithy said.
“’Tis the only way to learn what brings them here and what will make them leave. We must know their purpose before it is too late to change it.”
Terrwyn shoved her hair from her face. The questions leapt from her mouth before she had time to stop them. “What would you have us do, Smithy? Fight them with pitchforks and hoes?”
Stunned, the men spun to look at her. Their glances shifted between father and daughter.
Terrwyn walked away from the table, the cleaning forgotten. “I, too, desire the English to keep to their own land. Just as I desire Owain would put a stop to his raids into the English holdings. You’ve heard the rumors, same as I. He hides close by. Each attack led by that devil and his band of followers brings more sanctions against us.”
Smithy thumbed his chest. “I say we send them on their way tonight.”
She smiled, willing her lips to hold firm. “I acknowledge, ’tis a brave and brawny group of men I see before me. But listen to my father. Our numbers are too small to raise a hand against English rule. Even now, they know ’tis lambing time. Already they wait with the temerity of slavering wolves for their share of the flock. Would you rather they take them all? You dream of a time when our children forget the ache of an empty belly.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “Peace is what we desire. Peace is what we’ll have if you listen to your lord and do as he says.”
Glancing up, Terrwyn met her father’s gaze and nodded encouragement.
Dafydd stepped up beside her and clasped her hand. “’Tis nothing you can do to stop Owain from stirring their English blood for revenge. But you can join us. ’Tis only for a short time. The soldiers will move on when they discover there is nothing more for them to seize.”
The heavy door swung open. As if one accord, the men lifted their heads and a hush settled over the smoke-filled room.
“Good wife,” Dafydd said, “what brings you here?”
Terrwyn’s mother squared her jaw and grasped the coarse woolen cloak tight around her middle. The men sat in uncomfortable silence, casting their eyes at the knots in the trestle table.
“Isn’t there a place for a woman filled with child to sit and rest?” She purposefully patted her rounding belly, pointing out the fullness of her own breeding time. A slight smile lifted the corner of her lips as a row of male backsides shuffled over.
Dafydd nodded toward the vacant spot on the bench closest to the hearth. “Gwenhwyfar, sit and be silent if you are able.”
She nodded in obedience and moved to squeeze in between the two brothers, Bran and Maffew. “Good eve, Bran.” She splayed her fingers over her cloak and rested her cupped hands upon the crest of her protruding belly. “Maffew, be certain to tell your mother I believe it will soon be time for her services.”
Bran cleared his throat. “We swear, my lord, to tell our mam when she returns from the mountains.”
Gwenhwyfar straightened her spine. The bulge under her cloak stretched the woolen material until the weave was about to split. “’Tis I, not Dafydd ap Hew, who is in need of a midwife.” Her words nipped at him as if she were a corgi after the heels of a wayward sheep. “I do not mince my words. ’Tis near a fortnight since your mother walked into the wooded hills. Find her and bring her back. I will need her skill before the end of tomorrow.”
Worry marked Dafydd’s face. “Go, do as she bids.”
Bran and Maffew nodded their obedience and stumbled out the door.
The silence in the tavern was stifling. The men shifted their seats. Throats cleared uncomfortably. They kept their heads down, entranced with the workmanship of their boots. Their deep frowns revealed that their trust had wavered.
Dafydd jerked his chin toward Gwenhwyfar, silently pleading for assistance.
Terrwyn edged toward the bench and touched her mother’s shoulder. “Come home to the cottage. Warm your insides with Catrin’s mulled cider.”
The bench creaked as Mam pulled away. Her glare bounced off Terrwyn, ricocheting to Dafydd. “I’ve heard the talk, my lord. The village is bursting with fear, wondering what you will do to save them this time.”
“Mam.” Terrwyn bent close. “You do not want to do this.”
“Aye, daughter, I do.” She rose from the bench, one hand supporting her back, the other gripping the edges of the cloak together. “You will not place yourself between your father and me.”
Shrugging, Terrwyn stepped back, her palms up in surrender. She would know the breadth of her mother’s wrath before she closed her eyes for the evening. There were no secrets between father and daughter to keep. It was the residue from last eve’s dream that had brought her to the tavern. The feel of change in the air rubbed her senses raw.
“Well, Dafydd.” Gwenhwyfar motioned with a flip of her wrist, covering the span of the room. “What fine Welshmen do you intend to send to the English wolves this time? Whose heart do you intend to break tonight?”
“Gwennie.” Dafydd moved toward his wife. “Look about you. I assure you, they don’t come for the boys but for the mutton.”
Gwenhwyfar grasped the sleeve of Dafydd’s tunic. “Then why do they set up their camp outside the village? Archery targets are being set for competition as we speak. Which flock of wee lambs do you think they intend to take from us this day?”
Terrwyn could not shake the heaviness from her shoulders. The dream the night before gnawed at her head until she could not stand the feel of her mattress anymore. She rose from the bed she shared with her sisters. Moving quietly, so as not to rouse them, she dressed in the shadow of the morning light.
“And where do you think you are going?” her sister Catrin asked.
Terrwyn pressed a finger to her lips, motioning for quiet. “I need to prepare for the birth.”
“’Tis today?” Startled, Catrin began to sit up and stopped. The young twins, Glynis and Adain, slept on each side of her. During the night, the girls had draped their arms around her shoulders as if clinging to her for support. “You’ve had a dream,” she said, working to keep the fear from her voice so as not to awaken her bedmates.
Terrwyn nodded. She did not know how to put the feeling into words. Nevertheless, the feeling was there. She must heed the dream or receive another hour of sleepless thoughts. Mam would need all the faith their prayers could muster. “I will fetch Isolde and send her here.”
“And if the midwife has not returned from the mountains?” Catrin peeled the twin’s fingers from her hair and propped her head with her arm.
Terrwyn knelt to touch Catrin’s smooth cheek. She forced her own fears away and smiled confidently. “This is Mam’s seventh birthing. When it happens, it won’t be as long as the last time. She has been eating
well and, up until the soldiers came, her thoughts have been light.”
“And if it is not a boy?” asked Catrin.
“Then our mam will ignore Isolde’s wisdom and try again for a son.”
“What did you see in you dream? Is it a fine healthy boy?”
The air caught in Terrwyn’s throat. She nodded. “Aye, a fine, healthy boy.” She rose from where she knelt beside Catrin’s crowded bed. “Dawn will soon be upon us. Keep an eye on the girls. I must find the herbs that will help Mam until Isolde returns.”
With Catrin’s simple nod, Terrwyn was free to leave and turn to the task of repairing the tranquility torn apart by her dream. After nineteen years, she knew well enough not to ignore the night visions. However, they were only a window to the future and could be altered if you were determined to see it done.
At least that was what she liked to tell herself.
Once outside the family cottage, she took in a deep breath. The sound of the English encampment tore into the quiet fabric of the gray-misted valley. A voice, so out of tune it would shame the singer’s own mother, sang a battle song glorifying the English crown. Someone cursed the minstrel and the song was forgotten as the soldiers’ argument filled the air.
Terrwyn cinched in the strap to her quiver and drew it snug across her back. Pulling her cloak tight, she hastened her pace. The path meandered past the small church building. The chapel’s wooden shutters remained closed to the heavy air. Pale stones, marking the loss of loved ones, stood erect in the burial garden behind the simply constructed building.
Outside the village circle, smoke swirled up from the thatched roof of the watermill. Tawny light filtered through the cracks of the sheep byre as herders prepared for another day of birthing lambs into the world.
Terrwyn twitched the edge of her skirt, saving the hem from a mud puddle. With her empty basket held tight to her side, she marched past the alehouse and did not look to see if a familiar figure stumbled out of the building. Ignoring the damp chill eating its way through the soles of her shoes, she headed to the outer edge of the village.
A small garden, readied for the spring planting of herbs and flowers, lay beside Isolde’s cottage. The doors and windows were shut snug and tight. Terrwyn eyed the chimney, searching for signs of the morning fire. Not a wisp of smoke curled up to the heavens. Nor did a light shine under the door.
Worry began to knot her stomach. The night hours had passed and still Bran and Maffew had not returned with their mother. Surely Isolde would come back as soon as she received Mam’s message. The midwife had to be there to change the outcome of Mam’s fate. Pounding on the doorframe until her knuckles were raw, Terrwyn glanced at the nearby rolling meadow. Dew on the new grass shimmered under the dawning light. No sign of fresh tracks marked the lush hill.
Forced to change the fates herself, Terrwyn searched her memory for the lesson in healing Isolde had recently given her. She turned from the cottage and began the climb toward the glen that held the early flowers that might ease her mother’s pain.
The sun moved higher, burning the mist out of the sky. Refusing defeat, she clung to the hope of Isolde’s imminent return and pulled up a few timid shoots of wild onions. They would serve well as a token gift for the midwife’s wisdom. And still, she did not find the herbs Isolde had used in the times before. Nor did she find the flowers she saw in her dream.
Hearing her name, Terrwyn straightened and quickly abandoned her search for hidden balls of spring mushrooms. Her little sisters ran toward her as fast as their legs could carry them.
Their errand so urgent, Adain failed to notice when her hair caught on a bramble bush. It was only when the thorn scraped against her scalp that she stopped with a yelp.
Following a few steps behind, Glynis yanked her twin’s long brown strands from the snare. “Come quick, Terrwyn! Mam is hurting.”
Terrwyn’s heart pounded savagely against her ribs. She could not help casting a desperate glance to the horizon. Surely Bran and Maffew were only on the other side of the knoll.
“Terrwyn,” Adain urged. “There is no time to waste!”
Terrwyn nodded. Grabbing up the hem of her skirts, she lifted it above her knees and hurried down the hill. Near the village, she stopped to catch her breath. “Where is Father?”
Glynis and Adain looked at each other.
Terrwyn captured Glynis by the sleeve and shook her arm. “And where is Catrin? Why isn’t she by Mam’s side while I am out?”
Adain answered before Glynis opened her mouth. “He is with the English soldiers. They came for him early this morn. Catrin went to fetch him home but has not returned.”
Terrwyn smoothed Adain and Glynis’s hair and offered them a brave smile. “All right then.” She kissed their cheeks. “I know that you are weary, but I ask you to scamper back to Mam. I will be there as soon as I am able.”
Tears welled up in Glynis’s dark brown eyes.
“Hurry now!” Terrwyn said. “I’ve a stop to make at the midwife’s before I return home. Then I’ll be there straightaway.”
“But, Terrwyn,” Aiden asked. “What are we to do?”
Hearing the catch in Aiden’s words, Terrwyn spoke gently. “Not to worry. Babies have a time all to themselves. They will be here when they are ready. While you hold Mam’s hand and smooth her brow, Glynis can sing her a song or two. That will surely bring a smile to her face.”
The twins nodded in unison, then ran hand-in-hand in the direction of their cottage.
Terrwyn headed back to the midwife’s home. Drem’s disappearance had taken a toll on their mother’s health. Everyone in the village knew this pregnancy was against Isolde’s advice. The twins had been Mam’s last successful birthing. And the stillbirths of the two babes after them had forged a determination in her mother that would not allow failure. She would birth another son for her Dafydd. A son to carry the land in his name. Even if it took her last breath.
Terrwyn could not imagine how she was to guide mother and baby through the valley of life. She had been by her mam’s side when the little ones were delivered, still and lifeless. She had seen the torment of yet another loss to both her parents. And she had no idea how to make this one any better than the last two.
Not if her night visions were true.
Terrwyn paused. A horseshoe hung over the door, promising luck to those who entered. She touched the smooth iron, praying its force would spread through her and pass onto her family.
Knocking twice, she stepped inside the cottage. The last time she and Isolde met had ended in frustration. The midwife had taken the notion in her head that she could not count on Bran and Maffew to succeed her in the skill of healing. To Terrwyn’s dismay, Isolde looked upon her to take up the role. At the time, Terrwyn thought faeries had touched the old woman’s mind in the middle of the night. Now she thanked the saints for their hand in fate.
Casting a hasty look about, she found the saltbox on the shelf. Beneath it was a bottle of holy water to keep Isolde’s home pure. Underneath the shelf was a willow basket filled with red woolen yarn and matching flannel. Isolde swore red brought luck and would not only restrain the faeries’ mischief but also keep sickness at bay. Terrwyn did not know if she put much stock in that notion, but the flannel cloth had helped Glynis when she last had a sore throat.
Terrwyn pulled out the soft material from the basket. She filled it with the herbs the midwife had pointed out to her on her last visit. Crushed motherwort, raspberry leaves for tea, and oil infused with rosemary were added to the pile. Just as she was leaving, she realized she had nearly forgotten the most important item of all.
The large wooden birthing chair sat in the corner waiting for her to figure out how she would move it without a lot of fuss. Father was a proud man and would not take kindly to the notion of having his private business bantered about the village, but Mam needed that chair.
Someone was whistling a song outside the window. It was an old tune her brother used to sing to her. When s
he was a young child. When life was pleasant.
She looked out the doorway and saw a tall stranger, a man strong of arms and straight of back, walking down the path with apparently no rush in his step. He carried himself with pride. She hesitated. The cut of his tunic was rough and serviceable. He had a look about him that caused a person to think he could handle whatever befell him. Sure as the saints lived, he could not be an Englishman. Yet there was something oddly familiar about him. Perhaps he traveled from the North Country.
Without another thought, she waved him over. “You there. Pick your feet up and bring yourself here.”
The man paused. The morning breeze ruffled a tuft of his black hair. He turned to look over his shoulder and then to the right. His face flashed a moment of surprise as he seemed to finally notice her. Thumbing his chest, he pointed at himself.
“Aye, you.” Terrwyn nodded. “Hurry!” Relief lifted her spirits. Although the man appeared to be simpleminded, it did not matter so long as he had a good strong back and carried the chair without complaint.
As the stranger closed the distance between them, Terrwyn noticed the red rose badge of the English king sewn on his tunic. Relief fled as quickly as it came. Oh, how could she have been so foolish? She felt the blood drain from her cheeks. Her mouth went dry. She thought of nothing but running behind the safety of the door.
“Is there something amiss?” His deep voice trailed over her skin.
Terrwyn grasped the leather handle, tugging to pull the door shut. “Forgive me. ’Twas a mistake.”
“A mistake?” Concern darkened his eyes. Reaching over her head, he pushed on the edge of the door. It swung easily on well-oiled hinges. He looked about the room and glanced down. “My own mam would cuff my ears if I didn’t help a healer.”
“Oh, no, I am not—” Terrwyn began.
“Have you a bug in your head? You called me over and none too quietly. Do you require my help or not?”