by Hale Deborah
“I need no answer, friend.” As Con’s mouth stretched wide, he could feel his annoyance with Enid slipping. He grabbed onto it and tried to hold tight. “I was only thinking with my tongue, as ever.”
“Oh.” Idwal nodded as if he understood, but his jagged features contorted slightly in a look of puzzlement.
It passed in a flash, chased off his face by a broad smile. “Fine music you made…last night.” He broke into a chorus of “Goat white, goat white, goat white,” then stopped abruptly. “Will you play again tonight and tell more stories?”
That was the question of the day, wasn’t it? Con thought. Would he let Enid’s coldness drive him out of Glyneira, to blunder into Macsen ap Gryffith on his way to Hen Coed, or chance missing the border chief altogether?
His time in the East had taught Con not to waste effort chasing quarry that might come to him if he exercised a little patience.
“I’ve a mind to stay a few days more. Would you like that?”
“Oh, yes!” The vigor with which Idwal’s head bobbed up and down warmed Con. In the fellow’s uncomplicated welcome, he found an antidote to Enid’s baffling shifts of manner.
“I may even hang about until Lord Macsen comes.” Con mused aloud. “He might think it an honor that Glyneira has a bard on hand to entertain him.”
Idwal considered and appeared to see the sense in that, even if his clever sister-in-law couldn’t.
Con himself was still firmly on the fence. This would be an ideal opportunity for his talks with Lord Macsen. All he had to do was wait around for the plum to drop into his lap. On the other side of the balance, his pride rankled at the notion of staying where he wasn’t welcome.
From as far back as Con could remember, he’d been blessed, or cursed, with the ability to see both head and tail of a coin at once. For the most part it had been an advantage, helping him make peace between his fellow warriors when they fell out among themselves. It had come in handy on his mission for the Empress, too, letting him see events through the eyes of the chiefs he was trying to pacify. By anticipating their arguments, he’d been able to marshal all the reasons to counter them.
Perhaps he’d been too hasty with Enid—blinded by his own tetchy pride and the old ulcerous wound of his hopeless boyhood longing for her.
“There’s only one wee problem in all this, Idwal.” Con blew out a breath, not certain if he was more exasperated with Enid…or with himself. “I think the lady of Glyneira would just as lief be clear of me.”
Idwal mulled the idea over and over, like an old hound worrying a tough bone.
“No,” he ventured at last. “That’s just…her way. She’s not a…merry lass like my Gaynor. There’s a…sad place in her. A sore spot she fears folks may…poke at…if she lets them too close like.”
He grew more and more agitated with each word, until at last he broke off, slamming the tines of his dung fork against the dirt in frustration. “I must sound…a fool. I’m that bad…with talk now. Words is all riddles to me.”
“Don’t you fret, Idwal.” A qualm of shame gripped Con’s belly. What was his imagined slight compared to this man’s struggle to make himself understood? Or whatever troubles Enid might carry on her slender shoulders? “You talk better sense than lots I’ve heard. It can’t have been easy for any of you at Glyneira since Howell was killed.”
Idwal calmed. “Not bad…for me. I do as I’ve done…all along. Muck out the animals. Watch the gate. Hunt some. Enid has the…running of the place. Wants to keep it…going…till the lad’s of age.”
It would be many years until Master Davy was old enough to lift the responsibility from his mother. No wonder Enid had looked for a strong, canny husband to share some of the burden. And no wonder she shrank from the prospect of a troublesome guest underfoot while she was trying to prepare for her suitor’s coming. Considering some of the mischief he’d gotten up to during their childhood, Enid had good cause to believe he might be more bother than he was worth.
Then and there, Con swore he’d be no fuss to her. He would work his heart out in the next few days to prove his worth.
“Have you another fork, Idwal?” he asked, striding toward the stable. “Two can muck out a barn twice as fast as one. Then we can go scare up some game for the feasting when Lord Macsen comes.”
She must have gotten rid of him after all, Enid decided as the day wore on with not a sign of Con ap Ifan around the maenol compound.
Not that she’d been looking for him, of course.
As she went through the familiar steps of wool dying, Enid swept her thoughts clean of the dreadful fancies that had plagued her. When Macsen ap Gryffith and his party arrived at Glyneira, Con would not be here to meet them.
Con would not set eyes on Macsen’s fosterling, her twelve-year-old son, Bryn, and see the truth he might have guessed sooner, if he hadn’t willfully blinded himself to it.
That her late husband had not been the boy’s father.
The flutter of panic in Enid’s chest eased, but an ache of regret took its place. She would probably never again set eyes on the only man she’d ever loved for she had driven him from her door with harsh words.
She’d had no choice, Enid reminded herself. Con had lain waste to her life once already. She had so much more to lose now than she’d had then.
Her plan to bind her family closer together, safe as downy chicks under motherly wings, would all be for naught. Even if Macsen would still marry her once he found out the secret she’d hidden for so long, she’d be sure to lose Bryn.
The boy was so much like Con—daring to the point of foolhardiness, eager to venture forth into the big dangerous world beyond Powys. If Bryn discovered he had a Crusader for a father, the boy would stick to Con like a burr.
And Con? He’d be just irresponsible enough to permit it, like as not. Imagining fatherhood a great lark without sparing a thought for the responsibilities.
For the first time, Enid understood something of her father’s actions when she’d informed him she could not wed the man he had chosen for her because she’d surrendered her virginity to a young plowboy turned mercenary. At the time she’d thought her father harsh and hateful.
Part of him might have wanted to punish her for challenging his authority and thwarting his plans of a grand alliance, but another part had likely just wanted to protect her in the way she now longed to protect her own children.
“Mam!” As if summoned by her thoughts, Davy came tearing into the wash shed. “Mam, come see. Idwal and the bard have brought meat and fish!”
O Arswyd! For a moment Enid struggled to catch her breath. She should have known it would not be so easy to rid herself of Con ap Ifan. As a boy, he’d deafened his ears to scoldings until all but the most severe physical punishment rolled off his back. His temper might have flared a little when they’d spoken that morning, but Con had never been one to nurse a grudge. His quickness to make up a quarrel had baffled and infuriated her by turns when they’d been young.
How would she ever get rid of a man who refused to take offense and leave? Unless she defied the most sacred traditions of her people by chasing off her unwanted guest at the point of a sword?
“Come, Mam!” Impatient with her delay, Davy grabbed Enid by the sleeve and tugged her into the courtyard.
For a moment, she could barely see Con through the crowd that had gathered around him and Idwal. As Davy towed her toward them, though, the flock of admirers parted.
Idwal toted a mess of fat brown trout, while Con held aloft a pair of good-sized hares by the hind legs. Catching sight of Enid, he waggled the rabbit carcasses and flashed her a smile of such infectious appeal that the corners of her lips twitched in spite of her.
“Now, no talk of guests sitting idle and being entertained while the rest of the household is scurrying to make preparations,” Con insisted. “Clever fellow that he is, Idwal found the means to satisfy both. I enjoyed a fine day’s hunting, and we’ve brought back a fair catch to stock the lar
der.”
The look of beaming pride on her brother-in-law’s broad features made Enid bite back the sharp words that tingled on the tip of her tongue. What could she say that wouldn’t knock poor Idwal flatter than a cake of lagana?
Did Con understand just how dirty he was fighting?
“A few more days like this,” quipped the bard-turned-hunter, “and you’ll be able to gorge Macsen ap Gryffith until he’s as round as the old Earl of Chester!”
In what she hoped would pass for a bantering tone, Enid replied, “Lord Macsen won’t thank us if he grows too heavy for his horse to bear him. Still, we should be able to furnish a good table with such a fine catch.”
She glanced around at those who’d gathered. “Don’t forget, we have other preparations to make for our expected guests from Hen Coed, and our regular spring tasks besides.”
As the small crowd dispersed back to their chores, Gaynor took the hares from Con. “Let me go hang these, won’t you? My, they’re fine and heavy. Bring the fish along, Idwal, that’s a good fellow.”
The children ran off after their aunt and uncle, leaving Enid and Con standing alone outside the wash shed.
A ridiculous wave of bashfulness suddenly swamped the mistress of Glyneira. Swallowing several times in quick succession, she nodded toward the low building behind her. “Can we talk for a moment, Con? In here, where we won’t risk being overheard by anyone who cocks an ear.”
He followed her into the shadowy interior, lit only by what sunrays spilled through the open door and by the small fire that crackled under the dye cauldron. Beneath the faint reek of smoke and the sharp aroma of the dye plants hung the smell of wool.
Enid spun around to face Con…too quickly. He blundered into her and for a heart-pounding instant they gripped each other to keep from falling. The innocent fumble of Con’s hands on her fully clothed body made Enid burn for him as she never had for her lawful husband, God rest him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, Enid. I’m sorry.” Con’s hand trailed down her arm to offer her fingers a fleeting squeeze before letting go. “Sorry for bumping into you just now, and sorry for making such an ass of myself this morning. Of course it’s no business of mine who you wed or when.”
And nothing could persuade him to make it his business. Enid dismissed that twinge of regret the way she would have swatted off an insistent fly.
“As it happens,” Con said, “I have a bit of business to discuss with Macsen ap Gryffith. And Glyneira would be a better spot to meet with him than Hen Coed, for a number of reasons. You’d be granting me a great favor if you let me stay. In the meantime, I’ll put myself at your service to do whatever needs doing around here. Be it to prepare for your company or to get your spring crop sown. I’m not the mischief I used to be as a lad. I swear, you’ll never know I’m around.”
Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Con ap Ifan. Enid nearly choked to prevent that thought from coming out in words. She would know he was around. Her body would tingle with the knowledge from daybreak until dusk every day. Through the dark, empty hours of the night, that tingling would intensify to an unbearable itch.
But how could she deny his request without blurting out the secrets she dared not reveal?
Just as when they were young, he’d woven a circle of words around her—all the reasons and sound arguments his facile mind could spin so easily. He even seemed able to anticipate her objections and counter them before she got them out of her mouth.
All she had was her tenacity and patience. Sometimes, if she clung to her opinion stubbornly enough, she would wear him out. But not often. More frequently, he would dizzy her until she lost her grip and tumbled into his sticky web.
Perhaps he suspected her present silence was an effort to dig in her heels against him, rather than a desperate scramble to rally a reply.
Grabbing the tip of the long braid that hung over her shoulder, he tickled her cheek with it, the way he’d often teased her in their younger years. “Come, now, Enid. I don’t mean you any harm.”
Of course he wouldn’t mean it. He would cause her harm, though, if he stayed. She tried to hold on to that painful certainty, even as her head spun and she tilted toward Con.
Somehow, their lips found each other.
On several special occasions Enid had tasted mead, sweet and intoxicating. Con’s kiss was better. It seemed to transform her blood into honey, flowing in a thick, languid pulse. In her breasts and her loins it distilled into something hot and tipsy.
Before she could melt into a puddle of seething need on the floor beneath him, Con wrenched himself away from her, muttering some guttural Saxon-sounding oath.
“I beg your pardon, Enid.” His easy poise shaken for once, Con staggered back toward the door. “I didn’t mean to do that! I don’t know what came over me.”
As he fled, Enid struggled to bring her rebellious feelings back under control.
Though that kiss had hoisted her high only to cast her back down again, she did not regret it. For she had glimpsed the key to ridding Glyneira of Conwy ap Ifan.
Nothing would spur him to run so far and so fast as if she made believe she wanted to keep him here with her.
Forever.
Chapter Four
Have a care now! Con’s tiny voice of caution fairly bellowed as he reeled his way out of the washhouse. Enid’s kiss resonated on his lips like a perfect golden note plucked on an enchanted harp of the Fair Folk.
How could he have stolen that kiss?
True, he tended to speak before he thought and act before he spoke. Over the years he’d learned to exercise some prudence, though. Particularly when there was much at risk…as there was now.
Kissing the lady of the maenol, uninvited, might constitute offense enough for her to withdraw the hospitality of her house. And how agreeable an ear was Macsen ap Gryffith likely to lend the man who’d been taking liberties with his intended bride? If Con cherished any hope of success in his mission, he realized he’d better tread warily around Glyneira from now on.
Around the mistress of the place most warily of all.
He heaved an unbidden sigh, part rueful…part wistful. For one sweet fleeting moment, when Enid had stepped into his embrace and fit there with a sense of perfect rightness, nothing else had mattered to him. Not ambition, not wanderlust, not even his own life.
Fie! Con shuddered to think of another person having such power over him.
Before he could ponder the threat, Enid’s children barrelled past him—young Davy hotfoot in pursuit of his sister, both of them squealing with infectious laughter.
“Where are the pair of you bound?” he called after them.
Myfanwy skidded to a halt. “Auntie Gaynor sent us to gather kindling.”
“Want to come?” Davy collided with his sister, who gave him a playful shove. The boy entreated Con with a wide smile no less bright for the loss of one or two milk teeth.
“Why not?” He might do worse than keep out of their mother’s sight until supper.
The girl grabbed one of Con’s hands and the boy the other. Together they towed him toward the maenol gate. Their eager grip on him and their unfeigned relish of his company provoked a curious warmth in Con, as though someone had wrapped a snug but invisible brychan around his shoulders.
“Auntie has plenty of kindling.” Myfanwy glanced up at Con, her blue eyes twinkling. “She only wanted to get Davy out of the kitchen before he scalded his hand trying to fish a scrap of meat from the stew pot.”
Con laughed as he squeezed the boy’s hand. “Hungry, are you?”
Master Davy gave a vigorous nod. “Big folks can go without eating till nightfall, but my belly won’t hold as much as theirs to last me.”
“And you still have your growth to make.” Con hoisted the little fellow off the ground as the three of them ambled through the gate. “Tell that to your Auntie Gaynor the next time smells from her stew pot set your mouth watering. Or offer to test a
spoonful to make sure it’s properly seasoned.”
He remembered all his own wiles for coaxing an early bite during his hungry boyhood years. Having no position in the household, he’d learned young how to get what he wanted by making himself agreeable. The skill had stood him in good stead as he’d matured and his appetites had…changed.
“Properly seasoned!” crowed Davy. “That’s a good one. I’ll try it tomorrow.”
“Only don’t let your mother catch you.” Con pulled a face for Myfanwy’s benefit. “Or she may guess where you picked up the trick. Then she won’t be any too pleased with either of us.”
“I don’t think she was any too pleased with you from the minute you came, Master Con,” teased the girl. “What spite has she got against you? When you were young, did you used to tag along and pester her the way Davy does me?”
The question tripped Con up. “I reckon I might have caused her a spot of bother in my time.” Was that how Enid had remembered him—as a troublesome tag-along?
They reached a copse of beech trees that bordered a large field within sight of the maenol. Though both children knew the chore was only an excuse to get them out from underfoot, Davy and Myfanwy quickly set to work, competing to see who could collect the biggest load of twigs. Con joined in their game, scrambling to assist whoever fell behind.
Would he ever know this kind of simple fun with children of his own? Con wondered as he dropped a fistful of twigs onto Davy’s pile. Fatherhood was a matter he’d never spared much thought before.
With good reason, he reminded himself. A child would tie him to one woman, possibly even to one place. That prospect held little appeal for a wanderer of his ilk. It wasn’t all selfishness that made him shrink from the notion of having a family, either. Con knew his own shortcomings too well to fool himself into thinking he’d make a good father.
It was one thing to gambol about with Enid’s youngsters, more like a fellow playmate than anything. He wouldn’t want to bear the ongoing responsibility for keeping them fed, clothed, sheltered and protected from harm. Yet, for the first time in his life, Con acknowledged the possibility that his solitary existence might be lacking something important.
