by Hale Deborah
She expelled a sigh that sounded too large to have come out of her small frame. “I will be sorry, though, for what all comes of it. For what it may cost my children and Glyneira.”
Damn! He’d only wanted to heal an old tainted wound from the past. Instead he’d struck Enid a fresh blow.
She pulled herself upright, squaring her slender shoulders as if to bear the heavy weight of what she’d done. That tiny gesture smacked Con harder than any reproach she might have hurled at him.
Enid pulled the door open a crack, letting the chill draft of reality in upon their enchanted cocoon. “I’ll speak to Lord Macsen as soon as I can get him alone for a moment.”
Then, as if giving voice to her private thoughts, she murmured, “I hope he won’t think I’ve been leading him on all this time, and take it ill. He deserves better than a wife who only wants him to bring her family together and protect them.”
Something he didn’t quite understand propelled Con up from the fleece-strewn floor before Enid marched out of his life, as he had once marched out of hers. Naked and roused anew, he caught her between the door and his body, pressing her back until she pushed the door shut again.
“Don’t fret, cariad. I’ll bring your family together. I’ll take care of them.” It wouldn’t be easy, but he would find a way. “You and I, we’ll have a lifetime of nights together, as fine as this one and better.”
The candle sputtered out just then, but not before Con glimpsed a look of relief and wonder in Enid’s eyes that made his heart soar.
“Do you mean it, Con?” She spoke in a whisper, as if she feared her asking might change his mind.
“More than anything in my life, cariad.” He wrapped his arms around her, partly to signify his protection and partly to anchor himself to the ground in case the rapidly inflating bubble of joy in his chest should waft him straight up to the roof.
In the darkness he fumbled to locate her lips with his own, only to find them raised to meet him. He and Enid kissed long and deeply, without the least reserve. A kiss at once fondly familiar and deliciously fresh. A destined kiss that seemed to fill the empty place in Con’s heart to overflowing.
“We’ll be a family.” The thought of it set him so drunk with happiness, he gave way to giddy laughter as he hoisted Enid off the floor and twirled her around. “You and me. Bryn and the young ones.”
Like a magical carpet, his enthusiasm seemed to lift him off the ground and fly away with him. “I want to wed you as soon as we can arrange it with Father Thomas. Once my mission for the Empress is done, I’ll come back to collect you and the children. Then we’ll sail to the Holy Land where I’ll set you up with a fine house in Edessa.”
Caught in the sweet, silken web of his own fancy, Con barely noticed how Enid tensed in his arms. “I promise, cariad, you’ll have the most luxurious bath chamber of any lady in that city.”
“What nonsense are you talking, Conwy ap Ifan?”
The sting of Enid’s tone and the force with which she wrenched herself from his arms sent Con’s flying carpet hurtling to the hard earth.
“Is that your notion of protection? Carting my children off to some far corner of the world, away from everyone they’ve ever known to plunge them into the middle of a holy war?”
He had offered her the precious treasure of his fortune and his future, and here she was flinging it back in his face as if it was a reeking pat of sheep’s muck!
“They’re in the middle of a war, now, in case you haven’t noticed. And the Normans have the upper hand. In Edessa we’d be the ones in a position of strength.”
“Living among Franks and heathens.”
“And what’s wrong with that? They may be different than us, but there are good people among them. Besides, who’s to say our ways are right and theirs are wrong? It’s a big, exciting world out there, Enid. Our children will be all the better for venturing out into it.”
“They’re my children.” Enid jerked the door back open. “And I know what’s best for them.”
For a moment she froze there in the open doorway, a dark slender shadow against the faint light of approaching dawn. When she spoke again, the outrage had fled her voice, leaving behind a wistful note that tugged at Con. “Why must we go away? Why can’t you stay here with us? You’ve seemed so happy at Glyneira.”
“I am…I was.” Con groped on the floor for his discarded garments. Even in the dark, he felt at a disadvantage arguing with her fully clothed while he stood bare. “But we’ve plowed this furrow before and nothing’s changed. How can I stay at Glyneira with no authority and nothing in my own right? You’d still be the mistress and me little better than a hired plowboy again.”
“No authority?” Enid’s words rode a wave of scornful laughter. “You came here as a travelling harper and had the whole maenol doing your bidding in a week. Why is it so important for you to be a big man in the eyes of the Normans? Will gold and glory warm your bed at night? Will they tend you when you’re ill, or weep for you when you die?”
Dumbstruck, Con struggled into his breeches, trying to think of something, anything he could say that might convince Enid to wed him on his terms.
For once it was her turn to have the final word.
“You vex me to death by times, Con ap Ifan. For all that, I think the world of you and I’d sooner have you for my husband than any lord or prince. If you thought half as highly of yourself as I think of you, you’d have nothing to prove to anyone.”
Without giving him a chance to reply, she closed the door of the washhouse, plunging it once again into stifling darkness.
“I have nothing to prove.” Con tried to believe it, but the words rang false in his ears and the empty place inside him gaped wider than it ever had before.
Chapter Seventeen
“A word with you, my lord, if I might?” Enid fought down a spasm of panic that threatened to make her retch up what little she’d eaten for supper the previous night.
“What?” Lord Macsen rubbed his temples as he glanced up at her from his seat in the hall.
A pair of contrary sensations ran through Enid at the sight of his fierce visage. Foremost came alarm, wondering how this proud, powerful man might respond when she rejected his marriage suit. Yet deep in her heart a feeling of relief unfurled its fragile wings.
However she would manage without his protection, at least now she would not have to wed a man capable of stirring such disquiet in her.
“I—I would speak with you, my lord. Somewhere more private, if we may.”
Lord Macsen stared at her face for a moment, then seemed to recollect who she was. “Your pardon, Lady Enid. There is a fog in my head this morning. I’m not accustomed to such potent spirits in the quantity I put away last evening.”
He staggered a little while getting to his feet, then flashed Enid a rueful look. “I hope I did not make too great an ass of myself.”
“A man who carries so heavy a burden has a right to take his ease and make merry when he gets the chance.” She dithered for a moment, trying to decide where best to break the news of her decision.
Perhaps Lord Macsen guessed what she was thinking, or perhaps he didn’t feel up to much walking. “This is as good a place as any for us to talk. I will make it private for us.”
He beckoned one of his men at arms, then muttered a few words to the fellow. Like late snow on a mild day, the small crowd in the hall melted away until he and Enid were all alone.
Her galloping heart beat faster still. “Can I fetch you aught, my lord? Cider? Ale? Strong drink often provokes a great thirst afterward.”
As Enid backed away, Lord Macsen reached out, grasping her wrist to stay her. His hand was so large and her arm so small, his clenched fingers reached from her hand nearly to her elbow.
“My curiosity is sharper than my thirst just now.” With firm but temperate force, he drew her down to the bench beside him. “I hope you’ll quench it in a manner to my liking.”
If only she could! Eni
d toyed with the notion of accepting Lord Macsen’s offer, despite that benighted wager with Con. How could he hold her to it, if she chose to do otherwise? By indulging her own selfish desires, she had forfeited his silence in the matter of her son. Now he would claim the boy whether she wed Lord Macsen or not.
Gathering her breath, Enid forced herself to meet the border chief’s intimidating gaze. “I am honored that you offered for me, my lord. But after careful thought, I fear I must decline.”
“Damn!” Lord Macsen pounded his leg with his fist. “I did make an ass of myself last night. I was too familiar in my speech and actions. I offended you.”
“Not so, my lord.”
He did not heed her tepid assurance. “I swear it is not my custom to take strong drink, for I need to keep my wits about me. Last night I only took the mead because I did not wish to disdain your hospitality.”
The urge to hide behind this excuse tempted Enid sorely. Lord Macsen must recall that Howell had often drunk more than was good for him. His lordship would blame himself, not her, if she refused him on that account.
But she had resolved to shoulder the consequences of her actions.
“Do not fret yourself, my lord.” Enid spoke to him in a more forceful tone than she ever had. “How can I fault you for accepting the drink I offered? Besides, there was nothing in your conduct last night to give offense. Please believe me, it had no bearing on my decision.”
Lord Macsen’s brow folded into deep furrows, as if he had trouble believing her or was searching for another explanation. “Did I ask too soon? It took me years before I was ready to wed again, but my rank allowed me the luxury of waiting. I can wait longer yet, if you will abate your answer. I ask only that you tell me when you are inclined to take a new husband so I may put myself forward again.”
Why could she not love this man? Enid wanted to pound her head against the thick timbers that framed the hall. For all his unsettling size and fierce aspect, he had never failed to treat her with earnest consideration. As a husband, he would be constant, reliable, protective—all the qualities Con ap Ifan would never have.
Now he offered her the means to delay the confrontation she dreaded. She would be honoring her agreement with Con, yet not creating a costly breach between Glyneira and Hen Coed.
“Very well, my lord.” It shamed her to give him false hope, but what choice had Con left her? “If I find myself inclined to take a husband, I will consider your offer first.”
Her smarting conscience goaded her to add, “I will not hold you bound by this. If you grow weary of waiting and choose to take another bride in the meantime, the loss will be mine for hesitating when I should have jumped.”
“Do not be too harsh with yourself.” He enveloped her hand in his. “You only do as your heart bids you. I would be the last to gainsay that.”
Enid’s gaze flinched from his. “You show me more patience than I deserve, my lord.”
“Patience is the twin sister of persistence.” He released her hand with a show of reluctance. “They may not be a comely pair, but they stand a man in good stead over the years. For now I am content to bargain your no up to a perhaps. In time I hope it will become a yes.”
“I wish I could oblige you now, my lord.”
If only her traitorous body had not led her stubborn heart into rebellion against her will.
As Con tidied the washhouse of any evidence that he and Enid had passed a night of pleasure there, the courtyard rapidly filled with Lord Macsen’s men. Curious, he sauntered over to a pair of them. From what he could see, they appeared to be suffering the ill effects of last night’s mead.
“What’s all this?” Con nodded around the courtyard. “A sorry sight you lot are. You should get back in under Lady Enid’s roof before you frighten the beasts.”
“Would that I could.” The taller of the two Powys lads shielded his eyes from the sun’s glaring light. He looked decidedly green and spoke in a halting way, as if barely holding his gorge. “Our lord and your lady are talking in the hall. He ordered us out.”
Your lady. The words set a bittersweet echo ringing in Con’s heart. It was how he thought of Enid, and had during all the years he’d adventured in the Holy Land.
Now he wanted to make it the truth for all to know, but she would not have him except on their old terms with him as servant and her as mistress. Even for a prize like Enid, he could not cast aside the foundation he’d built for himself in the past dozen years, nor the fine life he might build upon that groundwork in the years to come.
If she felt for him even half of what she claimed, how could she scorn the splendid future he offered her for the sake of a modest acreage the Normans would likely seize one day? How could she expect him to bury himself here with her until the maenol walls closed in tighter and tighter around him, and the deadly sameness of one day after the next suffocated him?
The other of Lord Macsen’s men spat on the ground at Con’s feet, wrenching him out of his bitter musings.
“Why do two people need so large a hall to talk in?” the fellow demanded of his companion. “Can they not find a private corner out here and leave the hall to them who need more rest?”
“I daresay they won’t be long.” The taller man looked better for a few minutes in the open air. “Rhys told me Lord Macsen proposed to the lady yesterday. She’s likely giving him her answer now.”
“Let us hope she’ll have him.” The shorter one elbowed Con in the ribs. “Then we can make merry at the wedding feast.”
Before Con could retch out a reply, the other man spoke. “She’ll have him right enough and plenty glad of it I daresay. This is no time for a widow woman to be running a maenol on her own. Besides, it’s plain how our lord dotes on her. I reckon he’d do most anything for her and her brood.”
Those words struck Con with the force of a mailed fist in the stomach, knocking the air out of him. Macsen ap Gryffith had nothing like the bond with Enid that he did. The border lord could not have known her more than a few years, and those only as another man’s wife. He was not the father of her son. Yet even his men at arms knew Lord Macsen would do most anything for her.
Was that not the true measure of love?
The taller of the two men caught his friend’s eye, then nodded toward the maenol gate. “Why don’t we take a walk down to the river and douse our heads in cold water?”
“A fine idea. Will you come along, Master Bard? You looked to have put away a vast quantity of that mead last night. For all it may taste like honey, the morning after is worse than the sting of a hundred bees.”
The tall fellow clapped a comradely arm around Con’s shoulders. “Gerriant speaks right, harper. You do look about ready to flay the goat.”
Con certainly felt ready to retch his guts up, though it had nothing to do with the few sips of mead he’d drunk last night. “You two go ahead. I’ll catch you up in a bit.”
The one called Gerriant shrugged. “Please yourself.”
They set off toward the gate with hesitant steps, as if anxious not to jar their tender heads or bellies. Con watched them go, his own head spinning with regrets and his belly queasy with shame. He had thrown the word love around far too freely since coming to Glyneira. Now he asked himself if he’d ever truly known its meaning.
A loud, urgent cry from the watch platform rescued him from his rueful thoughts. “Bar the gate!”
The order seemed to effect a miraculous cure on Gerriant and his friend, who ran the last few steps and threw their backs into pushing shut the great slab of lashed timbers.
Con sped toward the forge, hoping to lay hands on a bow, a sword, or even a pike.
The children! Might they have been caught outside the walls? A choking fear such as he’d never known on his own account chilled Con’s blood.
When he rushed back into the courtyard again with a bow in one hand and a full quiver slung over his shoulder, the gate had been opened just wide enough to admit a lone rider who clung to the neck of h
is lathered mount as if exhausted…or wounded.
Lord Macsen’s men swarmed around the rider, whom they clearly recognized. Some eased him from the saddle while others held and calmed his horse. The men of Glyneira flocked to the courtyard, each with some manner of weapon in hand, while the women swooped down to pluck their children to safety.
In all the commotion Con spotted Myfanwy dragging her little brother toward the house. His heart began to beat properly again.
Macsen ap Gryffith strode from the house with Enid hurrying close on his heels. Her gaze swept the courtyard. Spying her younger children, she rushed toward Myfanwy and Davy, clamping them in her protective embrace even as her eyes continued to search for her eldest son.
The border lord’s deep resonant voice rang out over the tumult around the gate. “How now? Are we under attack?”
“Not Glyneira, my lord,” came a reply, “but Hen Coed has been taken by the Normans of Falconbridge. Aled roused himself to deliver the warning before he fainted from his wounds.”
“Bring him into the hall,” called Enid, pushing Myfanwy and Davy toward the house. “I will tend him.”
At a curt nod from their lord, Gerriant and his friend carried the wounded messenger where they’d been bidden. Con plunged into the milling crowd and pulled Bryn clear.
“Aled is only two years my elder,” the boy murmured as he let Con lead him away. “He’s another of Lord Macsen’s fosterlings.”
Staring with unblinking eyes, Bryn walked with a wooden, stumbling gait, as if his young mind was in too much turmoil to properly control his body.
Con tried to stifle visions of what might have happened to his son if Macsen had not thought to oblige Enid by bringing the boy with him.
“Your mother needs your help, lad.” Con shook the boy by his slight shoulders. “You must collect Myfanwy and Davy, then take them somewhere they’ll be safe and out from underfoot. Can you do that?”
