by Hale Deborah
“Everyone had time to grow used to the idea of Howell’s going before he went,” continued Father Thomas. “Not too much time, heaven be praised for mercy, but enough. Enough for him to make a good confession and die shriven. Who of us can ask for more?”
“You speak wisdom, Father.”
The priest cracked a broad grin and nodded around the room where folk were leaning back from their meal, rubbing their teeth with green hazel twigs to clean them, and talking quietly amongst themselves. “I’m wise enough to know it’s poor manners to keep the bard’s stories all for my own amusement when the rest of the company is eager to hear.”
He cast a look at Enid, who nodded. At that Father Thomas lurched to his feet and clapped his large fleshy hands for silence. “Attend you, now! We have the very great honor this evening of a proper bard among us. Conwy ap Ifan is kin to our lady Enid and a native of Gwynedd. He passed the winter months in the southern cantrevs and spring has lured him north to Powys. In his time, he’s ventured far abroad, travelling through the kingdoms of the Franks and as far away as the Holy Land. But I will sit down and hold my tongue now, so you may hear the rest from his own lips. The hall is yours, Master Con.”
The company cheered as Con hoisted his harp and left his seat at the high table to move nearer the fire.
“I thank you for that eloquent welcome, Father Thomas.” He pulled his fingertips over the harp strings in a quick run. “It’s true I have wandered far abroad in my travels, but it only taught me the wisdom of the old saying ‘God made Wales first, then, with the beauty he had leftover, he fashioned the rest of the world.’”
If that didn’t dispose the crowd in his favor, nothing would. Yet as he spoke the words, Con knew they were more than hollow flattery. These past weeks, as he’d reacquainted himself with the land he’d forsaken in his youth, it seemed as though a skilled but invisible hand plucked at the cords of his heart, making warm, resonant music such as he could only echo with his harp.
“Here’s a tune I often sang to myself in far-off places when I grew lonely for home.” Con plucked out the bittersweet melody he’d played so often. “Llywn Onn.” “The Ash Grove.”
“The grand Ash Grove Palace was home to a chieftain, who ruled as the lord of a handsome domain.”
Around him folks swayed to the music and began to hum haunting harmonies.
As he went on to sing of the chieftain’s beautiful daughter who had many rich suitors, no amount of will could keep Con’s gaze from flocking to Enid.
“She only had eyes for a pure-hearted peasant, which kindled the rage in her proud father’s chest…”
That hadn’t been the way of it, of course. Enid had been too dutiful a daughter and too practical a creature ever to brave her father’s displeasure by choosing a lowly plow-boy over the nephew of a prince.
“I’d rather die here at my true love’s side than live long in grief in the lonely Ash Grove.”
As the song wound to its beautiful, poignant conclusion, was it his foolish fancy, or some capricious trick of the firelight…? Or did a mist of tears turn Enid’s eyes into a pair of glittering dark amethysts?
What of it, good sense demanded, if a woman who’d been recently widowed got a little teary over a plaintive song? Only a fool would think “The Ash Grove” meant to her what it had long meant to him.
Besides, it was too early in the evening for sad songs. Time to lighten the mood.
“Here’s one for the children.” Con swept his gaze around the room, winking at each one in turn. “I hope they can help me sing it, for I always make a fearful muddle of the colors.”
“Where is the goat? It’s time for milking.” He cocked a hand to his ear and the young ones sang back to him, “Off among the craggy rocks the old goat is wandering. Goat white, white, white with her lip white, lip white, lip white…”
By the time they called the black, red and blue goats, everyone was laughing and clapping. Con followed with several more light ditties about robins and larks and the return of springtime. Then he recited the familiar story-poem about the children of Llyr being magically transformed into swans.
As he oiled his throat with a few more drops of cider and tuned his harp for more music, Con noticed Enid trying to usher her protesting children off to bed.
“Let them stay a while longer, why don’t you?” He added his own entreaty to theirs. “Remember when we were their age and the bard from Llyn came to your father’s hall? How vexed we were over being chased off to bed.”
Enid shot him a glare of purple menace that told him she remembered all too well. He’d had a grand idea they should crawl onto the roof and listen to the music that wafted up the chimney. It had all gone without a hitch until Enid had fallen asleep and rolled off the roof, knocking out a tooth and breaking her arm. He’d been able to scramble away and pretend innocence. Since Enid had vowed by all the Welsh saints that she’d been alone in her mischief, he’d escaped the skinning he probably deserved.
How many other wild schemes of his had she paid the price for over the years?
Before Con could ponder that question, Enid scoured up a grudging smile for her children. “Very well, then, you may bide a little longer. Only a wee while, though, mind? And only because the pitch of this roof is steeper than my father’s. You’d break your young necks, like as not.”
Myfanwy and Davy exchanged sidelong glances and mystified shrugs. Con understood, though. He winked at Enid and was rewarded with a reluctant twist of her lips.
“I’ll keep it brief,” he assured her.
“You do that.” If Enid meant to sound stern, she didn’t quite succeed. “It isn’t only the children who need their rest. Others have a full day’s work ahead of them tomorrow, and you have a long walk to wherever you’re headed.”
Wherever he was headed? To Hen Coed and Macsen ap Gryffith. Another step closer to that knighthood and his triumphant return to the Holy Land. Why did that prize not glitter as brightly as it had just a few hours ago?
Never one to dwell on unpleasant thoughts, Con pushed the question out of his mind.
“Here’s a song I learned in Antioch,” he told his audience, launching into an eerie wail of a melody.
That prompted the Glyneira people to ask him all sorts of questions about his time in the Holy Land. Without too much poetic embellishment, Con managed to hold them spellbound with tales of his adventures—the wonders, the opulence, the intrigue. When a wide yawn stretched his mouth, he realized he’d been talking far longer than the “wee while” he’d promised Enid.
He ventured a sheepish glance her way, only to find her looking as enthralled by his tales as the rest.
“I mind it’s past time to put the harp on the roof,” he said, meaning they should bring the festivities to an end. “Here’s a quiet tune to lull you all to sleep?”
As he played, folks fetched their brychans and found good spots among the reeds to stretch out for the night. Enid motioned her children away to their private chamber. Con wondered if this was the last glimpse he’d have of her before he headed off to Hen Coed at the cut of dawn.
After the last notes of the lullaby had faded into the night, some of the company responded with muted applause. Others murmured their approval of the night’s entertainment. Father Thomas bid Con an effusive farewell before wending his way home.
“Fine music,” declared Idwal, nodding his head slowly.
“Indeed it was,” agreed Gaynor, holding tight to her husband’s arm. “What a pity you have to be on your way so soon, Con ap Ifan. How grand it would be if you could stay and entertain at the wedding.”
Con flashed a regretful smile at Gaynor’s younger sister Helydd. “I wish I could oblige you. But the man who takes so fair a bride won’t need any songs or poetry from the likes of me to crown his joy of the day.”
After an instant’s bewilderment, the lady blushed. “Oh, I’m not to be the bride, Master Con. Once Enid and his lordship are married, I hope they can find me a—”
“Enid?” Con squeaked like a half-grown boy. Then Helydd’s other words sank in. “His lordship?”
“Aye.” Gaynor beamed with pride. “Macsen ap Gryffith, himself. He’s due to arrive in a few days’ time. Enid pretends it isn’t all settled, but we know better. I haven’t a doubt in the world but there’ll be a wedding ere his lordship departs Glyneira again.”
Well, well. Con bid Idwal and the women good-night, then rolled up in the thick, coarse-woven brychan he’d been given.
Why venture off to meet Lord Macsen if the border chief was coming here? Glyneira might be the perfect place for them to confer, more distant than Hen Coed from the prying eyes of King Stephen’s vassals at Falconbridge and Revelstone.
Con settled into sleep with a contented sigh. Now he and Enid would have plenty of time to warm over their old friendship—before she wed the border chief.
Somehow that thought threatened Con’s peaceful dreams.
Chapter Three
Though Enid slept in later than usual the next morning, she was not sorry for it. The hounds of Chester had long since risen, no doubt. Con ap Ifan might be miles from Glyneira by now, depending on which direction his roving inclination took him. And she’d been spared the polite necessity of seeing him off and wishing him godspeed.
Yet some bitter herb had crept into her sweet brew of relief at Con’s going.
“Think no more of him,” she chided herself as she buried the handsome green kirtle at the bottom of her trunk once more, then pulled on another, better suited for all the work she must do to prepare for Lord Macsen’s arrival.
Con’s surprise coming yesterday had made her realize the border chief might appear any day. She wanted the maenol in good order to welcome him.
Despite their late night, her children had not slept past their normal rising time. Myfanwy must be out feeding the fowl, while Davy would be off conning lessons with Father Thomas.
With no company and the prospect of a good day’s work ahead of her, Enid dispensed with a veil. Instead she combed out her long dark hair and plaited it back into a thick braid, with only a passing speculation as to how many white threads it had sprouted as a result of Con’s unexpected advent.
As she dressed her hair, Enid mulled over the preparations needed for Macsen’s arrival. They must butcher a few geese and perhaps a suckling pig so the meat could hang. She’d send Idwal with the hounds to bring in some fresh game. The hall must be swept out and fresh rushes strewn with sweetening herbs.
Once all those tasks were seen to, she would turn her attention back to such of the wool clip as she’d chosen to keep for their own use. The rest of the shorn fleeces awaited a visit from the merchant in early summer. Now that the wool had been washed, it would need to boil with dye plants, and mordant to fix the colors.
Did she have enough woad on hand to dye a batch blue for a new cloak for Bryn? Enid mulled the question over on her way to the wash shed. As she rounded the corner of the house, her mind already planning the pattern of weave, she collided with…
“Con ap Ifan! By Dewi Sant, what are you still doing here? I thought you meant to be on your way early.”
If he minded her uncivil greeting, Con gave no sign. “Call it the caprice of a bard.”
With those airy words and the casual hoist of one shoulder, he razed Enid’s carefully constructed plans to the ground.
“You and I never truly got a chance to talk over old times,” he added by way of explanation. “Though you got your ears filled with all the news of my doings, I scarcely know a jot about you. Why, I had no inkling you were set to wed your first husband’s lord. As private as a mole, you are, woman. Most ladies I know would boast of such an honor even before they offered a guest water.”
“How did you come to hear of that?” The abrupt question had hardly left her lips before she guessed the answer.
“Your sister-in-law told me last night.” Con confirmed Enid’s certain suspicion. “After you’d taken the children off to bed. Gaynor said it was a pity I couldn’t stay to entertain the wedding guests. On reflection I agreed it would be a terrible shame. So I made up my mind to accept your hospitality a few days more.”
Suddenly aware of how close he hovered over her, Enid took an unsteady step away. “Gaynor’s a good soul, but she gets ahead of herself betimes. There’s nothing settled between Lord Macsen and me by way of wedding.”
A teasing light twinkled in Con’s blue eyes, like the swift dance of water over a stony mountain riverbed. “You do expect him to come soon, though? And you have hopes of him?”
“What business is it of yours if I do, Con ap Ifan?” Enid wasn’t sure what vexed her more—his dangerous decision to linger at Glyneira, or the fear that each day he spent here would make it that much harder to part with him again.
“I only clapped eyes on you yesterday for the first time in a dozen years. You’re burnt brown as a Saracen and you fought long in the service of the Normans.”
The more she spoke, the hotter her indignation kindled. “You said yourself, you mean to go away again as soon as you may, leaving who knows what kind of a pig’s breakfast behind you. You’ve got no call to meddle in my plans or even to know what they might be.”
Con flinched back from her vigorous rebuke as he might have from a man brandishing a sword. “What’s got into you, woman? I thought we’d parted as friends. Besides keeping your young ones awake late last night, I haven’t done you any harm since I’ve come under your roof. Why must you scold me so, and do your best to chivvy me away? Am I not welcome in Glyneira? You did offer me water…”
And that bound her, damn his hide! Having paid so dear a price for her youthful rebellion, Enid could no longer imagine transgressing against the laws of tradition that obligated her.
“I thought you were someone else.” She doubted the excuse would sway him.
“Macsen ap Gryffith?”
She resented the sharp edge in Con’s voice when he spoke the border chief’s name. “As it happens, yes.”
“Are you saying you wouldn’t have offered me your hospitality had you known who I was?” If she’d kicked Davy’s puppy, the boy and the dog together could not have treated her to such a look of innocent, injured reproach.
“Yes…I mean…no” she sputtered “…that is…” If she wasn’t careful, she might pitch herself into Con’s arms or gather him into hers.
“Have I risen too high to suit you, Enid versch Blethyn?” Con’s posture stiffened and the yearning azure of his eyes froze to dark ice. “Is that it?”
He was the one imposing on her hospitality, rooting into all sorts of matters he had no call to concern himself about. The gall of the fellow to answer her back, proud as a prince!
“I’m sure I don’t know what kind of air you’re mincing.”
“Do you not? Then I’ll be plainer, shall I?” Con’s chiselled chin jutted. “When I was a poor plowboy in your father’s house and you the intended bride of a great lord, it amused you to befriend me. Even flirt a bit to exercise your wiles for your future husband.”
If Enid had soaked her cheeks for a week in bloodroot, she could not have dyed them any redder than they must be at that moment. Con thought she’d been toying with him, when instead she’d been over her head and ears in love.
“Now that you’ve come down a bit in the world,” said Con, “while I’ve come up, it doesn’t suit you, does it, your ladyship?”
“I never heard such idle talk…”
“Let me tell you one thing, then, Blethyn’s daughter, I’ve warmed the beds of plenty women richer and higher-born than you since I left Wales. And they seemed to like it well enough.” With that, Con spun on his heel and stalked off.
Enid stood rooted to the packed earth of the courtyard, trembling with a mixture of fury and dismay. She feared the bubbling cauldron might also contain a tiny but potent measure of that well-aged poison…desire.
He was right in what he’d said, Con knew it better than he knew the g
ospel. He stormed the length of the timber-walled compound, not certain where he was headed.
When they’d been boy and girl together under her father’s roof, ripe to bursting with all sorts of forbidden inclinations, Enid had fanned his calf-love into a blaze that had consumed him day and night. Especially at night.
How often had he woken in his loft bed above the oxen’s stalls, rampant and slick with sweat over a dream of that elusive girl naked in his arms?
As much as he’d been lured into mercenary service by the call of adventure and advancement, Con had also fled headlong from the demons of lust that had gnawed at his young flesh. And the bitter certainty that he had no chance in the world of winning Enid versch Blethyn.
Con barely noticed his steps slowing.
If she’d been haughty and scornful of him, it would have been so much easier to bear. For then he’d have craved only her ripening beauty, and any other girl would have made a tolerable proxy. But Enid had never once hinted at the difference in their stations and expectations. Then again, she hadn’t needed to. He’d been aware enough of the gulf between them for both.
As far back as Con could remember, she’d always spoken and behaved as though he was every inch the equal of the princeling her father meant her to wed. To the most menial member of Blethyn ap Owain’s household, struggling to cultivate a sense of worth, Enid’s manner toward him had been sweet balm.
“Fie!” Con kicked a tussock of weeds that had forced their stubborn way out of the courtyard’s hard dirt. “You’re thinking yourself in circles, fool! Was she only toying with you back then? Or did you imagine her soft looks because you craved them so badly?”
A deep halting voice issued from the stables, “You must…talk slower…if you mean me to answer.”
Enid’s brother-in-law emerged into the courtyard with a dung fork in one hand. A big fellow was Idwal, with ruddy-brown hair and a nose that looked like it had been broken at least once. That and his size might have given him an air of grim menace, but for his guileless blue eyes and ready grin.
