She looked up then, into bright hazel eyes very like her own. “I thought I’d find comfort there, but I did not. It was a disappointment to Hugh, too, for the monk who’d befriended him, Brother Damian, was gone, having been sent to another of the Benedictine Houses, the one at Shrewsbury. Hugh had so looked forward to their reunion, though, that I shall have to find some errand that needs doing in Shrewsbury.”
“I doubt that you’d be doing the lad much of a favor,” Amaury said impishly. “I’m sure he’d much rather be snug in his young wife’s bed than chasing about Shrewsbury after a monk he’s not laid eyes upon in ten years!” He was very adroit at reading faces, and after studying Ellen’s, he sat back in surprise. “Trouble in Eden so soon? They’ve been wed less than a year, hardly time enough, I would think, for them to have grown bored with each other.”
“It is lucky that you’re a priest, for any man so cynical would have made a most unsatisfactory husband! But you’re quick, I’ll grant you that. Indeed, all is not well betwixt Hugh and Eluned. Not that he’d ever admit it, not our Hugh. I daresay he’d endure trial by fire ere he’d speak ill of her. But I know he is hurting, Amaury, and I think I know why. There is no way I can say this without sounding cruel, but the truth is that although the Lord bestowed beauty in plenitude upon Eluned, He was not as generous in His other gifts. She is a good-hearted lass, but not, I fear, at all clever or quick-witted. To some men, that would not matter, to others it would. From what I’ve heard, her first husband felt no lack in her; he was older than she, proud to have such a desirable wife, amused by her child-like ways. But what so charmed him no longer charms Hugh, and the poor lass does not know why. I do feel sorry for her, Amaury; she truly wants to please, and senses that she is disappointing Hugh somehow, but does not understand how she is failing him. And Hugh…he breaks my heart, for he is wretched, and I suspect he’s likely blaming himself for his discontent. Llewelyn’s people have a saying, ‘Hir amod ni ddaw yn dda,’ or ‘A long betrothal is not lucky.’ But in this case, it might have saved Hugh and Eluned a lifetime of misery.”
“A pity,” Amaury said, and meant it; his flippancy notwithstanding, his fondness for Hugh was quite genuine. “But if a man is a fool to wed for love, he must be utterly daft to wed for lust. No one with sense would expect a candle to burn forever, so why should a flame kindled in bed?”
Ellen laughed. “To hear you talk, if you’d been in Eden, you’d have sided with the snake! Speaking for myself, my marital candle is burning quite merrily, thank you, and I have every confidence that it shall stay lit, too. They are not as rare as you seem to think. You cannot deny that our parents found a candle to last the life of their marriage. It’s quite obvious to anyone with eyes to see that Ned and Eleanora do not lack for light or heat in their marriage bed. And Edmund and Blanche can kindle a fire without flint or tinder, too. The best part of my English sojourn—until now—was the time I had with them—”
Breaking off, she entreated, “Ah, Amaury, do not look like that! I know you begrudge Edmund Papa’s earldom, but would you rather it had gone to that whoreson de Mortimer or to Gloucester or that Judas, John Giffard? Edmund and Blanche have been good friends to me, and I am right glad that they have found such contentment in their marriage. They have a second son now, did you know? Blanche gave birth to a fine, healthy lad a fortnight after Christmas, christened him Henry.”
Amaury gave his sister a discerning look. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to, for they understood each other as few people ever did. Ellen smiled sadly, shook her head. “No,” she said quietly, “it did not hurt as much as you think—or I feared. In truth, I found it much harder to look upon Davydd and Elizabeth’s little lads. I do not envy Blanche her sons, would not begrudge her a nursery-full. Hers was a loss no mother should ever have to suffer—”
“What are you talking about? What loss?”
“Surely you could not have forgotten? Not a death so bizarre, so—But then, you never knew! How could you, for you were in Italy when it happened, whilst Blanche was still wed to her first husband, the King of Navarre. Their young son was killed in a dreadful accident. His nurse was walking with him upon the battlements of their castle at Estrella, and somehow she tripped, dropped the baby over the wall, down into the bailey.”
“Jesus wept!”
“I doubt that a wound like that could ever truly heal. Blanche has never spoken to me about it, and I would never ask. I just hope that the sons she has borne Edmund give her joy in full abundant measure, for she deserves nothing less.”
“So do you, lass. Will you tell me the truth, Ellen? Does Llewelyn ever blame you for your failure to conceive?”
“No,” she said, “no, dearest, you may set your mind at rest. Llewelyn has never reproached me for my barrenness, never. Indeed, he has done all he could to comfort me, to reassure me that if I cannot give him a son, he will see that as God’s Will, not as my failing. I may not be blessed with a fertile womb, but I have been truly blessed in my marriage.”
Amaury was vastly relieved. “I think,” he said, “that I could get to like that husband of yours, Little Sister.”
Ellen laughed. “I’m somewhat fond of him myself. Now I want you to promise me that you’ll stop fretting about me. No man on God’s green earth could take better care of me than Llewelyn does. And I have by no means given up my hopes of motherhood, shall do my best to make you an uncle. I still have time, for a woman of twenty and eight ought to have another twelve childbearing years at the very least, mayhap more. In fact, I have a plan in mind.”
Ellen’s eyes shone in the candle light. She leaned toward him, eager to share her secret. “There is a holy well in North Wales, close by Basingwerk Abbey. It is dedicated to a Welsh saint, Gwenfrewi, and its waters are said to have wondrous healing powers, especially for women unable to conceive. Upon my return home, I shall make a pilgrimage to her well, Amaury, beseech St Gwenfrewi to heed my prayers, that I may give Llewelyn a son.”
“God grant it so,” he said, and never had he meant any prayer more.
“Ere I forget, I have something for you.” Ellen reached into the bodice of her gown, drew out a thin gold chain. “Papa’s ring. I’ve kept it safe for you, as I promised. But I think it is time now for you to have it back.”
As she held the ring out to him, Amaury caught her hand. “No,” he said, “not yet. You hold on to it a while longer, until I am freed, until I can come into Wales to fetch it back—and to see your son.”
Ellen’s eyes searched his face, and then she nodded slowly. Clutching the ring so tightly that the sapphire dug into her palm, clutching it as if it were a holy relic, she echoed softly, “God grant it so.”
That cold, wet spring eventually yielded to a rainy, cool summer. The Welsh had almost given up hope of seeing the sun again when, without warning, the second Saturday in June dawned to vividly blue skies, an all-but-forgotten warmth, and a mild, southerly breeze. The inhabitants of Llewelyn’s seacoast manor at Aber and the village that had grown up in its shadow soon found plausible excuses to escape into that dazzling white-gold light, to make the most of Nature’s sudden reprieve.
Ellen loved their times at Aber. She loved to walk upon the beach and gaze across the straits toward Llanfaes. She loved to follow the shallow, meandering river that flowed through a deeply wooded glen, and she loved to watch for that flash of silver amidst the trees ahead, anticipating her first glimpse of the surging waterfall that splashed over a sheer cliff in a narrow ribbon of white water. She loved lying beside Llewelyn at night in the same chamber where Joanna had once slept with her Llewelyn. Aber was the heart of her husband’s realm; it was here that she felt the pull of the past most strongly, and she never came back to Abergwyngregyn—musical Mouth of the Whiteshell River—without feeling as if she were coming home.
Ellen was an avid gardener, and she’d lavished loving care upon the gardens at Aber. Accompanied by Juliana and Edwyn, an aged gardening wizard whose plant-lore was legendary
, Ellen prepared to survey her verdant, flowering domains. They went first to the small vegetable plot; the Welsh were no more keen for vegetables than were the English, and Edwyn’s kitchen garden held only onions, leeks, garlic, and cabbage. Ellen’s inspection was rather cursory, and they soon moved on to the evenly spaced rows of the herb garden. Here were grown the medicinal plants used to make ointments and potions. The scent of rue wafted toward them upon the balmy summer air, and all about them was the evidence of Edwyn’s industry, his Merlin’s touch.
Juliana watched a fragile white butterfly dance upon the breeze while Ellen and Edwyn discussed his strategy for repelling the moles that were every gardener’s scourge. But Ellen’s usual enthusiasm was oddly lacking today; in a surprisingly short time, Edwyn was free to resume his other duties and the women were entering the flower garden that was Ellen’s Welsh Eden.
Enclosed by neatly trimmed hawthorn hedges, the garden had been laid out with exacting care, for symmetry and proportion and uniformity were the gardener’s goal; it would have been unheard-of to allow flowers to grow in the helter-skelter disorder to be found in Nature. The rectangular, raised beds were bordered by low wattle fences, and the centerpiece was a flowery mead, a sea of billowing Welsh grass adrift with daisies. Turf benches were scattered about, and a small fountain bubbled beside a trellised arbor, a shaded haven besieged by climbing roses and entwining honeysuckle.
Setting down her watering pot, Ellen took the scissors Juliana was proferring, began to gather an eclectic bonquet of Madonna lilies, blue columbines, and peonies. “If you take these,” she said, “I’ll cut some roses.”
“Ellen… I do not mean to pry. But I’d have to be blind not to see that you’re troubled. Would it help to talk?”
Ellen shook her head, a moment later let out an unladylike oath. With Juliana’s help, she managed to extract the thorn embedded in her thumb. Picking up a dropped rose, its ivory-white petals smeared with blood, she hesitated, then said, “I suppose I have been distracted this morn. It is just that…that Llewelyn and I quarrel so rarely. It was so needless, too, an argument that blew up like a summer storm, with no warning, no sense to it. I know I am making more of it than I ought. But this was the first time that we’d quarreled and then gone to bed angry…”
Juliana plucked a red rose, held it out to Ellen. “Send him a peace offering.”
Ellen reached for the flower. “I know the rose is a token of love, but I think Llewelyn might be won over more quickly by a roast carp, rice savory, and those angel-bread wafers he so fancies.”
“Well, then, why are we tarrying in the garden when we ought to be seeking out the cooks?” Juliana prompted, and within moments they were on their way to the kitchens. Taking action had done much to raise Ellen’s spirits, and by the time they returned to her bedchamber, she was discussing her planned “peace dinner” with a resurgence of enthusiasm. As they set about putting their cut flowers in clay pitchers, it was Juliana who first noticed the white cloth trailing from the bed canopy. Puzzled, she walked over for a closer look. “Ellen, what is this doing here?”
But Ellen was a soldier’s daughter. One glance at that makeshift white banner and she began to laugh, for she understood its significance at once. Flying over her marriage bed was a flag of truce.
Ellen was alone in their bedchamber when Llewelyn entered, sitting in a window-seat as she embroidered a linen altar cloth. She was an accomplished needlewoman, had been laboring that summer upon a new set of vestments for the priest of Dolwyddelan’s parish church. Nestled beside Ellen in the window-seat, Hiraeth gave Llewelyn an intent, faintly suspicious stare; although the little dog was resigned by now to this intruder’s presence in its mistress’s life, it had yet to offer him more than a grudging tolerance. Fortunately, he got a warmer welcome from his wife. Putting aside her sewing, she rose at once, facing him with just the hint of a smile.
The white flag had been taken down, folded neatly, and laid upon Llewelyn’s pillow. “Does that mean,” he asked, “that you reject my offer of a truce?”
“No, my lord husband. It means that you’ve no need of a truce, for I would make an unconditional surrender.”
“Without even knowing my terms? How very brave of you,” he said, and they both laughed, moved into each other’s arms. When they turned toward the settle, they discovered, though, that Hiraeth had already anticipated them, and was comfortably curled up on the cushions, regarding them with regal forbearance, a queen deigning to share her domain. “Never doubt that I love you,” Llewelyn said wryly, “for only a man hopelessly smitten would put up with that beast of yours. Now… I have a suggestion, Ellen. If the Truce of God can forbid shedding of blood on holy days or in the Lord’s House, why can we not consecrate our marriage bed, too, as a place where no quarreling shall be permitted?”
Ellen laughed, agreed that henceforth the boundaries of their bed would be as hallowed as the church threshold, and they sealed their pact with a kiss. “I wanted to make a proper, formal surrender,” she confided, “but as a woman, I was at a distinct disadvantage, having no sword to offer up to you, my lord.” To her amusement, he gallantly promised her free use of his sword, and she agreed, with mock gravity, to accept his offer that very night. But as much as she delighted in their erotic banter, she felt that she owed him a genuine apology, one she tendered now in all sincerity, for it was a wife’s duty to keep harmony in the home.
“My ill temper was even more inexcusable,” she said, “for I well knew why you were so testy these past few days. Is the tooth any better, my love—the truth now?”
“Much better,” he said, so emphatically that she knew he lied, and decided to ask Edwyn for feverfew, since the cloves did not seem to be helping. Dislodging Hiraeth, she insisted that he stretch out upon the settle and pillow his head in her lap, all the while marveling that a man so conversant with the perils of the battlefield would yet go to such stubborn lengths to avoid having a tooth pulled.
“Just lie back,” she coaxed. “The world will not come to an end because you take your ease for a brief while.” She stroked his hair, gently caressing his temples, a smile hovering about her mouth, for their jesting about swords had triggered an old memory.
“My parents quarreled far more frequently than we do,” she said, “but it never seemed to poison the pleasure they took in each other…mayhap because they both thrived upon chaos! I remember one quarrel in particular, when I was eleven. My father had broken his leg in a fall from his horse, and it could not have happened at a worse time, for he’d been about to sail for France, where the French King had agreed to mediate his dispute with the English Crown. Instead of arguing his cause in Paris, he found himself bed-ridden at Kenilworth Castle, in a truly vile temper. On the day in memory, he’d had a blazing row with my mother, and she’d stalked out, leaving him to lie alone in bed and fume. When I came into the bedchamber, he demanded to know why his squire had not answered his summons, and I explained that the rest of the household were loath to face him when he was in such a foul mood. He seemed surprised, asked if he was such a bad patient, and was quite taken aback when I told him he’d been a truly dreadful patient so far!”
Ellen laughed softly, and Llewelyn reached up, traced the curve of her cheek. “You were not afraid to be so plain-spoken, cariad?”
“Afraid—of my father?” Ellen laughed again, this time incredulously. “Not ever! He was always gentle with me, more than I doubtless deserved, for looking back, I can see I was more indulged than I ought to have been. My brothers, too. Papa demanded so much of all others, especially himself, and not enough of us. But to return to Kenilworth Castle, he said that I’d convinced him that he’d best make amends with Mama, and he needed my help. He sent me back to the great hall, Llewelyn, proudly bearing his battle sword to surrender to my mother!”
This was a pastime they both enjoyed, swapping memories of the yesterdays they’d not shared, for their marriage was still new enough that they had much to learn about each othe
r. Ellen in particular liked reliving her past and delving into his, although it saddened her to discover that her childhood had been so much happier than his. The de Montfort family’s binding cords had been hammered out of finely tempered steel, like the best swords almost impossible to break, but Llewelyn could not recall a time when his family had not been torn asunder by conflicting loyalties, by the estrangement between his father and grandfather. Ellen found it a little easier to understand the puzzling, often inexplicable contradictions in his troubled relationship with Davydd after getting glimpses into her husband’s storm-buffeted boyhood. And the more she learned, the more she yearned to give him children.
“They are all too rare,” she said regretfully, “our quiet moments together like this,” and indeed, the words were no sooner out of her mouth than her sentence was punctuated by a discreet knock. Llewelyn gave Ellen a rueful look, shrugged, and within moments was gone, hastening back to the great hall to receive a courier from the English King.
By now, Ellen was accustomed to such abrupt disappearances. Fetching her sewing from the window-seat, she resumed working upon the altar cloth. But Eluned and Juliana soon entered, and she put it aside for more secular concerns—making herself ready to preside with Llewelyn over the evening’s meal. She would not normally have changed clothes, for they entertained no guests at Aber that night. But her reconciliation with her husband still had a final act to be played out, later, in the privacy of their newly sanctified marriage bed, and she wanted to look as pleasing as possible for him.
With her ladies’ help, she donned a softly draped gown of emerald silk, Llewelyn’s favorite shade, and over it, a pale green surcote. Although the Church constantly preached against the use of cosmetics, earnestly deplored the sin of vanity, Ellen found herself squarely on the side of majority opinion, that there was nothing wrong in seeking to enhance God’s gifts, which she proceeded to do with powder, lip rouge, perfume, and a mouthwash of honey and myrrh. She was already anticipating her private time alone with Llewelyn much later that night, and as she turned away from her mirror, she laughed suddenly, remembering Amaury’s skepticism about bonfires and beds, thinking that a priest, even a priest as clever as Amaury, could not hope to understand the bond that could be forged between a man and a woman, if they truly committed themselves to their marriage vows, if they were reasonable in their expectations—and if they were very lucky.
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