by Hale Deborah
And there was no shortage of work to do with Lord Macsen’s party expected before nightfall. With the help of Helydd and a couple of the other women, Enid swept straw from the hall floor and put down fresh rushes, laced with bay, fennel and other strewing herbs. She looked over the stables to make sure they were ready to receive the mounts from Hen Coed. Finally, on her way back to check on the kitchen, she started at the sound of Con’s name being spoken.
“I hope he’ll come back soon.” From around the corner of the washhouse, Davy let out a sigh so pitiful it was almost funny. “He made everything jolly. And he promised to take us up to the ridge.”
Though she knew Gaynor might need her help in the kitchen, Enid lingered out of sight, listening to the children.
“I’m in no hurry to see him again,” Myfanwy informed her brother in a brisk tone. “Sneaking off without a decent farewell, and after we gave him such a warm welcome. He promised to take us to the ridge, today, then he broke his word.”
“Maybe he had to leave quickly.” Davy sounded defensive, as though Con’s abrupt departure had bothered him more than he cared to admit. “Maybe some of those Saracen fellows were after him.”
Myfanwy made no reply for a moment, but Enid could picture the girl shaking her head and gazing heavenward. “There’s no Saracens in Wales, Davyd ap Howell. Have some sense!”
“Normans, then,” insisted Davy. “Mind what Con told us about them. Maybe he was leading a whole army of them away from Glyneira.”
“He’d more likely lead them straight through the gate,” Myfanwy snapped. “Fought for the Normans, that man did. For pay. Which makes him just as bad as they are. Worse maybe.”
“Doesn’t!”
“Does so!”
“Enough of that, the pair of you!” Enid bore down on her children. Even though he’d gone, Con ap Ifan was still causing trouble in her home.
Her overwrought feelings sharpened her voice. “If you can’t find anything better to do than quarrel, I have plenty of jobs I can give you. Davy, go see if Uncle Idwal has any errands he needs you to run. Myfanwy, be a good girl and pen up the geese. I don’t want them waddling around hissing at the horses.”
“Yes, Mam.” Myfanwy pulled a face at her brother.
Davy stuck out his tongue in reply.
“Off with you both!” Enid shot the children a black look that sent them scurrying.
Listening to Davy and Myfanwy had been almost as bad as the contrary voices that swirled inside her own head—one condemning Con, the other taking his part. How she longed for Lord Macsen and his party to arrive! Surely that would take her mind off the vexing subject of Conwy ap Ifan…if anything could.
From the fog of a fitful doze, Con heard a deep voice rumble. “My, what big, featherless birds they breed in this part of Powys.”
After a chorus of male laughter, a younger voice piped up, “Perhaps the Fair Folk bewitched a sparrow hawk into the shape of a man.”
Such an odd exchange could only be part of a dream, but Con pried open one eye just in case it wasn’t. What he saw made him start up so suddenly he almost pitched out of the tree.
A party of over half a dozen armed and mounted men loitered on the ground below staring up at him. The fellow who appeared to be the leader of the group bettered even Idwal’s impressive dimensions. With his thick black hair and bristling brows over shrewd-looking dark eyes, the huge man put Con in mind of a bear.
Cursing his lapse in proper wariness, Con slid down from his oaken perch. If these men had wanted to, they could have shot so many arrows into him that his corpse would have looked like a giant hedgehog.
He bowed before the big dark man. “Have I the honor of addressing Macsen ap Gryffith?”
So near Glyneira, it had better be.
“That depends, tree-dweller.” One corner of the man’s wide mouth raised a trifle. “Who’s doing the asking?”
“Conwy ap Ifan, from Gwydir in Gwynedd.”
“Gwydir, you say?” The big man stroked the dense whisker over his lip as if it aided him in thought. “The lady of the maenol not far from here is of that country.”
“Aye.” Con nodded. “Enid versch Blethyn is distant kin of mine. I just passed several pleasant days at Glyneira. Now I am on my way to Hen Coed to treat on urgent matters with Lord Macsen.”
“Then we have spared you a journey, Conwy ap Ifan. I am the man you seek.” Lord Macsen trained a challenging gaze upon Con. “Tell me, did you time your departure from Glyneira ill? Or did some accident slow you? In your place, I’d have passed one more warm, dry night under Lady Enid’s roof, then made a fresh start this morning.”
As Con mentally scrambled for the least incriminating answer, Lord Macsen added, “Better yet, I might have stayed on at Glyneira and let the folk from Hen Coed come to me. My herald must have arrived at the maenol before you left yesterday, or did you meet him on the road?”
Con remembered the young stranger he’d spied being entertained by Helydd. “I do believe your herald reached Glyneira safely.”
Why had Enid not told him Lord Macsen was due to arrive so shortly? She must have known. A seed of suspicion found fertile soil in Con’s mind.
“As it happens, Lord Macsen, I had…er…hoped to intercept you before you reached Glyneira.”
Two bushy brows shot up. “Before? Why so?”
Con glanced at the others in the party, six younger men and a boy. Macsen’s son? Except for the dark hair and full brows, nothing about the slender lad resembled the border lord.
“If we might talk for a moment, more privately, my lord…” Anticipating a protest, Con raised his hands above his head. “I bear no arms but my eating knife and that you are welcome to take from me.”
Lord Macsen exchanged looks with a couple of his men. One dismounted and promptly relieved Con of the knife, handing it over to his master.
The border chief nodded back up the trail, a subtle sign his party was quick to obey. They drew off a discreet distance.
“Talk quickly,” Lord Macsen advised Con in the calm tone of a man accustomed to ready obedience. “I’m anxious to reach Glyneira. My visit there has been postponed too often.”
The air rushed out of Con’s lungs, as though Lord Macsen’s massive roan stallion had fetched him a kick in the belly. He knew why the border lord was eager to reach Enid’s maenol…to beg from her what Con had scorned.
Seeing the flicker of impatience in Lord Macsen’s dark eyes, Con forced himself to speak. “It concerns your Norman neighbors in Salop.”
“Falconbridge? Revelstone?” The border lord’s eyes narrowed. “What of them?”
“I know you have just grudges against them both.” Con measured his words. “With the Normans divided amongst themselves over who will wear the English crown, this could be your best chance to strike a blow in return.”
“And what concern have you in our quarrels?”
A canny fellow, Macsen ap Gryffith. Con knew better than to mislead such a man.
“I will tell you that and more besides, sire. All to your advantage, I swear. If you will take me back with you to Hen Coed, we can talk more on the matter.”
After an instant to consider, the border lord shook his head. “I have urgent business with your kinswoman at Glyneira, and we are at her very doorstep. Come back with us and speak your piece there. Anything you might say at Hen Coed will not lose its flavor at Glyneira.”
Con wasn’t certain which dismayed him more—the notion of returning to Enid’s house himself, or the thought of Macsen ap Gryffith going there. Clearly Gaynor had not misread the man’s intent as far as her sister-in-law was concerned.
“I would just as lief not strain Lady Enid’s hospitality with an extra guest she little expects.”
Con struggled to keep his pride in check. It galled him to stand on the ground, addressing the border lord on his lofty mount. If Con’s mission succeeded and he won further royal favor in the Holy Land, he could be every inch Lord Macsen’s equal
one day.
“Besides, sire, if you heed the tidings I bring, you might do well to have your men mustered at Hen Coed so you can strike without delay.”
Again the border lord paused for thought.
“No.” Tossing Con’s knife to the ground at his feet, Macsen ap Gryffith wheeled his great rawboned horse, motioning for his men to remount and follow him. “Not even on that account will I come so close to Glyneira without completing my mission.”
For all their appearance of mannerly disinterest in Lord Macsen’s parlay with the stranger, his men must have been keeping their eyes trained on him. They obeyed his curt, wordless summons without a beat of hesitation.
Over his shoulder, the border chief tossed Con an ultimatum. “If you would talk more with me, return to Glyneira with us. If not, God speed you.”
Con bit his tongue to keep from unleashing a torrent of curses. Something about the big, dark-avised border lord put Con in mind of his friend, Rowan DeCourtenay. Both had a vital presence, an air of determination and command. Having made his decision, Macsen ap Gryffith would be neither forced nor swayed from his course. No more than Rowan would have been.
Nor Enid, for that matter.
Perhaps Lord Macsen and the mistress of Glyneira were better matched than Con had first thought. After all, Enid craved permanence and security. Where better to find them than in that sturdy rock of a man? And yet…
Though he had never ventured closer to marriage than in the past turbulent few days, Con sensed that two strong, stubborn wills in a marriage was at least one too many.
Lord Macsen’s party trooped by Con in silence, casting glances at him, by turns curious, wary and scornful. Last-but-one in the column rode the boy. When his horse drew beside Con, the lad reined to a halt.
“If you mean to come with us, you may ride with me,” he offered.
What choice did he have, Con asked himself, unless he wanted his whole mission for the Empress brought to naught? Surely Enid wouldn’t follow through on her threat to wed him by force with Lord Macsen in attendance.
The man riding rear guard scowled at Con, clearly vexed with the delay.
“Thank you, young sir.” Con scrambled up behind the boy on a placid old gelding whose rusty hide and black mane were both well shot with white hairs.
Once Con was securely mounted, the boy coaxed his horse into a temperate trot to catch up with the others.
“You seem to be the only one of Lord Macsen’s party schooled in proper courtesy.” Con praised the lad. Under his breath he muttered, “Including Lord Macsen himself.”
“Don’t fault them too much.” The boy spoke in a clear, pleasant voice that sounded oddly familiar. “They must always be on guard against the Normans. Never more so than out in the country like this. They’ll be much better humored once we get behind the walls of Glyneira—you’ll see.”
“You seem jaunty enough, my young friend.” Something about the lad made Con want to smile in spite of all the matters that weighed on him.
“Because I’m going home.” The boy seemed to savor that last word as if it was a drop of honey on his tongue. “This will be my first visit since…in a while.”
A fleeting chill ran through Con. His clothes were still damp from last night. At least, he tried to convince himself that was the cause.
Without waiting for a reply, the boy continued, “You and I must be some distant relation, if you are kin to my mother.”
Having caught up to the other horses, the gelding curbed his pace to a brisk walk.
Con clung tighter to the boy to keep from falling off. “Your m-mother?”
The lad gave a vigorous nod. “Lady Enid is my mother. I’m Bryn ap Howell. She probably told you about me. I have been in fosterage with Lord Macsen ever since my brother was born.”
“Of…course,” Con heard himself say. “It’s an honor to meet you, Bryn ap Howell.”
Even as the rote pleasantry left his mouth, Con plundered his memory for any mention of Enid’s elder son. Myfanwy or Davy might have made passing reference to someone named Bryn, but Con had paid no heed. Enid, he was certain, had never mentioned having another child besides her two at home.
Bryn looked nothing like his brother and sister, with their fair coloring. He had Enid’s dark hair and brows, but nothing of her delicate features. Queer she had not mentioned him. Unless she missed the boy so much, she could not bear to be reminded of his absence. That would be like Enid.
“Has his lordship been a good master to you?” Con asked.
“The best!” There could be no doubt of the young fellow’s sincerity. “They use me well at Hen Coed. For all that, home will always be wherever my mother is.”
Con might almost have spoken the words himself. He could scarcely recall his own mother, and for years he had been without a home…by choice. Hearing the conviction and warmth in Bryn’s young voice, Con suddenly knew that such a home as he had, he would always find with Enid.
“You handle a horse well, Master Bryn. How old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
Again Con nearly pitched off the gelding’s back. This time he could not blame the creature for slowing or speeding its pace. Half a dozen bothersome, unuttered questions merged in his thoughts, admitting of only one impossible answer.
“Almost thirteen,” Bryn amended as though repenting his small boast. “In the autumn.”
That slight correction came too late for Con.
Already an unwelcome certainty had been born in his mind, writhing, red and squalling. The dubious, disagreeable truth could no more be ignored than an infant could be thrust back into its mother’s womb.
This cheerful, well-made boy whom he clutched ’round the middle was not in fact Bryn ap Howell, but…Bryn ap Conwy.
Bryn son of Con.
How was that possible? Never, to his knowledge, had he made love to the boy’s mother, except in his dreams.
Suddenly Con’s vexing ability to assume the outlook of another person reared its troublesome head again. All of Enid’s perplexing behavior during that past week finally made a kind of garbled sense. Everything she’d done, everything she’d said, everything she’d not said had served only a single purpose—to keep him in ignorance of her son’s existence.
She’d even gone so far as pretending she wanted to wed him, in order to make Con flee Glyneira. And he had performed like a well-trained hound.
As they rode through the rain-washed forest, Con saw nothing of the world around him but a blur of green. He scarcely heard the muted thunder of the swiftly flowing river off in the distance. It could almost have been the sound of his own thoughts, churning like white water. He had so many questions he wanted to put to Enid, and demand satisfactory answers.
With each jog of the horse that brought them closer to Glyneira, Con’s heart gave a lurch and cried, “My son! My son!”
But whether it cried out in elation or alarm, Con could not be certain.
Chapter Eleven
A perfect bubble of joy swelled in Enid’s heart when she first caught sight of her son riding into Glyneira.
She should have known such joy could not last any longer than a bubble. When she recognized the man riding with Bryn, her bubble froze, fell and shattered into a thousand jagged shards.
For an instant she clung to the futile hope that Con might be as blind to Bryn’s identity as he had once been to her passionate yearning for him. The moment her gaze met his, that brittle illusion also shattered, chilling her with a fear more bleak than any she had yet experienced.
Enid cursed herself for failing to drive Con from Glyneira sooner, when he’d given her so many chances. Amid Lord Macsen’s large household at Hen Coed, Con might never have caught more than a passing glimpse of her son.
Of his son.
Now she would pay the price for her foolish weakness.
Willing her feet to carry her forward, Enid approached her guests. “Welcome to Glyneira, Macsen ap Gryffith. I hope you and your men will
accept water to refresh yourselves.”
Though she wished she could withhold the ceremonial offer of water from Con ap Ifan, Enid knew such action would only rouse Lord Macsen’s suspicion and Con’s hostility. His icy blue gaze warned her she did not dare add to his ire.
Lord Macsen vaulted from his saddle and greeted her with the kiss of peace. “Well come, indeed, Lady Enid. Though we have arrived on horseback, rather than on foot, my party and I accept your offer of water with thanks. I regret taking so long to return to Glyneira. Every time I prepared to set out, either Falconbridge or Revelstone made threatening moves to keep us on alert at Hen Coed. Add it as another reason for spite against them.”
The intensity of his dark gaze sent a ripple of disquiet through Enid. Everything about the man was so large and forceful. He made her feel even smaller and more vulnerable by comparison.
“Your coming is all the more agreeable for being long anticipated.” Enid stifled a qualm of conscience.
It wasn’t a lie…quite. Though she had told herself time and again how much she wanted to wed Lord Macsen, faced with his dark, potent presence, she found herself thankful he hadn’t arrived any sooner to claim her.
He held on to her hand. Enid wished he would release it, but she did not dare ask him to.
The border lord nodded back toward Con ap Ifan, who was helping Bryn dismount. “I hope you won’t take it amiss that we’ve brought a former guest of yours with us for a return visit? To hear him tell it, this Con fellow has some weighty matters to talk over with me.”
“Why should I mind?” Enid hoped the false smile on her face and forced cheer in her voice would not betray her true feelings. “All my household enjoyed Con’s tales and harping during his first stay. It’s only fitting Glyneira should have a bard on hand to entertain you in the evenings while you’re here.”
“A bard, you say?” Lord Macsen glanced back at Con, his dark brows raised. “For a bard, he talks strangely like a warrior.” He shrugged. “I look forward to hearing him play.”
To Enid’s ears, the words sounded like a threat. For reasons she could not begin to understand, she found herself rallying to Con’s defense. “You’ll enjoy it very much, I’m sure.”
