The look she gave him was helpless, despairing. “I am no lady.” Her eyes dropped to her hands where they gripped the edges of her cloak, as though they had never done anything but scrub floors and peel turnips. “You’ve seen it yourself, what I come from. I could never be no great lady.”
He looked at the stubborn set of her mouth, the little frown that put a crease between her brows.
“Already are you greater than any lady I have ever known.” She made a scoffing sound, opening her mouth to dispute it, but he would not hear it. It angered him beyond reason, that she believed she was so small. “You think yourself insignificant, born to naught, and yet you are here. You are here, Nan, and why? You have said it is not yours to choose who will rule this place, but it is you who has ended the last threat to its prince. With your own hands. Already you have chosen.”
He stepped closer to her and took her wrist again, ignoring the tension in her as she resisted the movement. He pointed at the empty place on her forearm where a blade was still missing. “When you did see a girl in danger – just a girl, ordinary and humble, a stranger to you – did you leave her to her fate? Nay, because you are no meek and shrinking servant.” She was looking down at where he held her, her hand tight in a fist, but she did not pull away. “Who could be more worthy to protect and love my people, to rule them as their lady? None but you.”
She shook her head, a faint and bewildered rejection. “I am not... I am no one.”
“No one!” He dropped her arm and put a hand to her chin, tilting it upward, making her look at him. “When I would have you come here as naught but my lover, you did scorn me. For dignity, for your honor, which you would not put aside for anyone. Not for anyone. You refuse a prince and call yourself no one?” He shook his head, amazed. “Even great ladies do not scorn princes, Nan, nor yet queens. But you did. And you were right to do so.”
She did not see it, this fairy queen who had stretched out her hand and transformed him from a shadow of a man into a prince. He took her face between his palms, soft skin beneath his fingers.
“Full well do I know I am unworthy of you. But all that I have, all that I am is at your feet, Nan. You have only to take it.”
Her breath was harsh against his fingertips, shallow breaths as she gazed at him. “I want to.” She blinked, and the tears spilled over, a delicate splash against her cheek. “God forgive me, I want to. But it is not how the world is made, Welshman. There is no way in it for one born so low to marry one so high.”
There was a plea in her, as though she wanted only to understand how it could be, how it could possibly work. As though she had forgotten what she had taught him.
“The roads made by kings are not the only paths a man may travel,” he reminded her. He brushed the tears away with his thumbs. “Is you who told me that we need not follow in the ways the world has fashioned for us.”
Her eyes searched his face, like she looked for some way to dispute and deny, afraid to hope. He leaned his forehead against hers, willing her to believe. He waited – he would wait here forever, her breath against his lips, her warmth between his hands. Just this moment, forever. Just this place they made between them. There was nothing else he wanted.
Her hand came up to lay against his heart.
“Like a bird across the sky,” she said. “It pays no heed to the paths laid out by men.”
He pressed her hand tight to his heart, and nodded. “We will make a way that suits us. Every day, if you will have me.”
Her hand came to cover his at her cheek, gripping hard. He pulled back to see her face and thought he might die of this feeling, of the happiness and the hope that leapt in him at the look in her eyes.
“Welshman,” she whispered, her heart pounding so that he felt it against his fingertips. “We will make a way.”
She kissed him then, fierce and eager, her mouth hard against his for a brief and dazzling moment. It was sudden, unforeseen, because she was as swift and fearless in her love as in everything.
“If you will defy the king then I will dare to be a lady, Welshman. I will have you. Be you beggar or prince, I will have you, and never let you go.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Outside the tiny village church, the priest who had heard her confession married them. If he thought it strange his prince should marry this uncouth foreigner who only this morning had confessed murder, he hid it well.
Nan’s breath caught when she saw the party that waited to bear witness to their vows. They were not as grand as the greatest lords of the king’s court, but she knew the look of men of consequence. The one with the harp goggled at her when she looked at him direct, so she lowered her chin and averted her eyes, knowing it was not as graceful as it might be but at least it was better than her habitual glare.
She married her Welshman with her hair in a mess beneath the hood of a plain traveling cloak, Fuss at her feet, blades on her arms, and not a scrap of silk or pearls on her. Her tongue did not falter to say his many names, this prince who would defy a king to make her his lady wife.
She would not be daunted. She loved him. They would make a way together.
It was not the tower, but the hall of the ancient manor house where they had their impromptu wedding feast. It was filled with his people – her people now – who bowed to them and embraced them with equal fervor, as familiar as old friends. The man with the harp was Rhys, the chief bard, who was joined by many fellows. They sang poem after poem into the night. She pleased one by asking if he would sing of Arawn of the otherworld, and then spent a pleasant hour listening to one performance after another, all the bards having their own versions of the legend and competing to see whose was judged the best.
It made her Welshman laugh. “It is not a likely tale for a wedding feast,” he said, and ordered them to sing instead of more cheerful things. They looked to her to confirm this command and just as when they bowed to her, she felt a mild panic. But her husband smiled so wide that her heart leapt in her breast to see it. “Already are they devoted to you, my lady wife.”
They were so easy, and so forgiving, and so eager to have her as their lady. They almost seemed to love her more for having been wed in her simple dress, for having appeared as though from nowhere to claim a place at their lord’s side. They did not expect her to put on fine airs, or to know a great many things. They only wanted her to love them, and him. Without a doubt, she was certain she could do that.
When her Welshman said to her that as lord and lady, they were servants to their people before all else, she was even more sure of herself. This was a different kind of service than she was accustomed to, but she would gladly learn it. For him and for them.
In the chamber behind the hall, she put aside her blades one by one, and looked at him. Her Welshman, her prince, her husband. “Even the king cannot sunder this union, do you take me to your bed now,” she said.
“He cannot sunder it even do I not,” he replied. “I have said my vows, Nan, and I will not have them broken by any man.”
She meant to ask him if he was certain of this course, because the risk to him was so great – but he did not give her the chance to ask it. He only took her in his arms and kissed her. He bared her flesh to his touch and pleasured her, and then whispered into the night that he prayed their child would grow in her soon.
The light flickered dimly across his hair, his face. It made her heart beat fast only to look at him, every time. She had never thought it could feel so right to be soft and defenseless, but she felt more herself in this moment than ever in her life, anywhere. His eyes were drifting closed, but his arms were locked around her like she was a treasure he would hold close forever.
“Know you how happy you make me?” she whispered. The tenderness swelled in her, and she pressed him closer, her heart against his, as she silently prayed that he would never be taken from her. That God would keep him safe from the wrath of the king.
It was but a week until they had word. A week of learning her h
usband’s people and their ways, and learning the kind of lady she could be to them. A week of seeing him among them, and how they looked at him, and how they needed him. A week of praying that God would not take him from this place, or from her. And soon enough they would know.
King Edward was in Wales, on his way to visit his lands in Snowdonia, and summoned Prince Gruffydd to him. It set a terror in her even to think of standing before the king and his court, but she would not let her Welshman see how her heart quailed. And she would not let him go alone.
His guard came with them, but she kept her weapons close. At most, the king would only shout and rage, her Welshman warned her. His famous temper was likely to be stirred by such blatant disobedience – but he could not undo the marriage.
To her relief it was not the full court that was assembled, but only a handful of retainers. Her eyes skimmed over the lords present, looking for any she had seen before, sure they would recognize her as the skittish serving girl who had dodged their grasping hands. A few she knew, but they did not seem to recognize her – either because they had not kept her face in their memory or because she was so changed in the gown of wine-colored velvet. They looked at her, some openly and some stealthily, but they gave their greatest attention to the prince who had come to beg his king’s pardon.
It was a private audience, only the king and his closest advisors, and she was summoned too.
“I am grown tired of troublesome Welsh princes,” King Edward said, with such a threat in the words that it sent a shiver up Nan’s spine.
“My liege,” said her husband from where he knelt before him. He spoke simply, begging pardon for renouncing the betrothal arranged by the king, swearing it was done not for any hopes of greater power, but for love.
At this, the king’s regard fell on Nan where she waited with bowed head at the back of the chamber. He beckoned her forward, and for a terrible moment she could not move. For just an instant, she thought she should have a jug in hand to fill his cup – but no, even when she served in his hall she had never served the king himself.
Only the thought of her Welshman could make her move her feet. And only the thought of her lady could make her lift her chin and straighten her spine.
She made herself imitate Lady Eluned, the assurance she had seen so many times, the grace and the power. It was a poor imitation, for never could she have such magnificence – just as she could never swing a sword like Gwenllian, or laugh with carefree ease like Robin. But it was enough to bring her to stand before the king and raise her face to him.
Lord William was there; she had not noticed him until this moment. While the king looked her over and the eyes of all his advisors were fixed on her, it was William who spoke.
“She is no one of importance, my lord,” he said to the king.
She was reminded of his mother, that careful cunning in how he spoke with just enough exasperation, just a little contempt. It was good that she was no one of consequence, and it was important the king knew that. She did not bring wealth or titles or a great alliance. Nothing that would give more power to a Welsh prince.
“I know her well enough,” continued Lord William, “for she has attended both my lady mother and my sister. She has no wealth to speak of, nor family nor name. There is naught but her youth and her beauty to commend her.”
“And those she has in abundance,” said the king. There was appreciation in his eyes, a hint of the wolf behind it, and she prayed God to keep her fingers from the tiny jeweled knife on her belt. But he only turned to her husband and said, “You value your king’s favor so little that you trade it for naught but a fair face?”
“Nay, my lord king. It is not your favor I hold so cheaply, but her honor I hold so dear.” He stood now, and did not flinch when he looked Edward in the eye.
“How dear?” asked one of the advisors from behind her.
It seemed to amuse some of them, but her Welshman took it as a cue. He nodded at one of the servants, who uncovered the cages he had brought. Then there was only gasping to see the white gyrfalcons, so beautiful they made Nan forget to breathe when she looked at them. Now she only looked at the admiration in the king’s face, his deep pleasure at the gift. It tempered the anger to almost nothing.
“Ever have my people given a portion of the falcons we trap and train to our king,” said Prince Gruffydd. “And only months ago did we agree to increase that number, in exchange for restoring me to rule. Yet still we can give more, in thanks to a merciful king.”
Nan did not understand all the words, but she understood bribery well enough. Lords and kings did not call it that, though. They called it a fine, and they spent much time in discussing numbers and nests and goshawks and peregrines. The sums made her head spin, and some concessions caused her Welshman to blanch so that she wanted to insist she was not worth so much. But she bit her tongue against it, because this was not about her or her worth. He must be allowed to rule, whatever the cost, for his people’s sake.
In the end, they came to an agreement. The king would have a greater share of the wealth of Aderinyth, a claim to a number of nests and a portion of trained birds, and her Welshman would rule.
When she understood it, she was overcome by a rush of confused feeling: relief for her husband, faint dread for herself, and anger that the king had demanded so much. It so overwhelmed her that she was glad to lower herself into a deep courtesy and hide her face.
“Do you regret it?” her Welshman asked her that night as they lay in bed. “That I remain a prince and you must be a lady. Say me the truth.”
“For myself? Nay, I cannot,” she answered honestly, rubbing a lock of his hair between her fingers, still amazed he was hers. “So worthy are your people and so well do you love them, that I would feel only sorrow if you must be parted from them.” She moved even closer, pressing her naked skin against his, and smiled. “Certes I will do my best to be worth the price you have paid.”
They rode back to Aderinyth the next day. Already the sight of the hills filled her with a contentment she had never known. It fit into a place inside her that she had not known was empty.
Tell me where I belong, she had demanded of her lady. And here was the answer.
At the top of the mountain pass they paused to rest before the descent and looked out over the valleys, the high peaks and rolling green hills. She knew the falconers were even now planning which of them would teach her their sport, and the ladies waited to attend her as she learned the ways of her new home. There was much to do, and she found herself not fearful of her new place and purpose, but eager. She would serve them with all the strength and compassion in her.
She looked at him as he surveyed it, the wind lifting his hair, his face soft with love as he looked out at the land he had longed for.
“You are home, Welshman.”
“Now it is home in truth,” he said. He turned to her and took her hand. “You are here, and it is home.”
THE END
Author’s Note
The conquest of Wales and subsequent oppression of its people represents one of the earliest instances of English colonialism. As such, it is a difficult topic to write about in an optimistic way – but not impossible. Though Aderinyth and its prince are entirely fictional, they are not entirely implausible.
As for the real Welsh princes, the fate of Llewellyn’s daughter and Dafydd’s sons as told in this novel is factual. Because Llewellyn – and upon his death, Dafydd – was recognized as Prince of all Wales, the consequences to them and their offspring were especially harsh. Llewellyn’s daughter Gwenllian was a prisoner for life (she died at age 54) at a priory in Sempringham. Prince Dafydd himself was hanged, drawn, and quartered as a traitor. His eldest son Prince Llywelyn died 4 years into his imprisonment at Bristol Castle. The younger Prince Owain lived at least 42 years as a prisoner there, and Edward commanded “a wooden cage bound with iron in that house in which Owain might be enclosed at night.”
Other Welsh princes were less power
ful than Llewellyn, and how Edward dealt with each varied according to their relationship with him – and their value to him. Many sided with the king and bartered political autonomy for lands and other royal favors, even long before the final conquest. (In fact, the conquest was made easier by the lack of unity among the Welsh, and the nature of Welsh inheritance laws.) I often find that readers unfamiliar with medieval history assume that a king invariably said “off with their heads” if anyone displeased him, but it just didn’t work like that. If it did, the two Barons’ Wars of the 13th century would have wiped out the entire political structure of England. Politics made strange bedfellows even back then, and though Edward saw the value in being harsh with some Welsh nobility, he equally saw the value in making concessions and compromises so long as he could retain control. It is worth noting as well that many nobles – including Prince Llewellyn himself – famously married without the king’s consent, and managed to retain power.
One other area of historical interest in the novel is prostitution, and though I have done my best to represent it with fidelity – women engaged in sex work then (as now) largely because of harsh economic realities, and they were as moral or amoral as anyone else – I can only recommend that those interested seek out the writings of Professor Ruth Mazo Karras and Dr. Eleanor Janega. Their writing is as entertaining as it is illuminating, and made me wish this story called for more on the subject.
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