Border Bride

by Hale Deborah

  Gaynor wrung her hands. “What’s to become of my poor lambs, now? Powys up in arms again and no father to defend them?”

  Enid gnawed on her lower lip. Gaynor had struck at her most vulnerable misgiving. On her own account, she was willing to endure the possible hardships of the path she had chosen. But for her children…?

  What if she could not convince Con to give up his lofty dreams of foreign glory and make his humble but loving home here with her? What if the raid on Falconbridge went awry and Con did not return?

  Perhaps Gaynor sensed her advantage, for she hastened to press it. “What is all this maiden talk of love from a woman with three children? You managed well enough with Howell, though you didn’t have any great fancy for him at first. The way you acted when you first came here, I was amazed you let him get you with child so soon, and…by Dewi Sant!

  “What is it, Gaynor?” Enid reached to support her sister-in-law, who looked ready to hit the floor with her ample weight at any moment. “Are you ill?”

  “Only sick to my belly!” Gaynor pushed her away. “Bryn isn’t Howell’s son, is he? That’s why you came here so unwilling—to save your family from disgrace when you bore a misbegotten babe.”

  Enid bowed her head under the accusations of which she had lived in daily fear for the past dozen years.

  Once Gaynor’s trusting, unimaginative mind had made that shocking leap to the truth, it vaulted beyond. “It was that Con ap Ifan who got you with child, wasn’t it? That dear, old friend from your girlhood. How could I have been so blind to it? I must be simple-minded!”

  “Keep your voice down, Gaynor! Everyone in Glyneira doesn’t need to know. Yes, Bryn is Con’s son. And I mean to tell Bryn so as soon as I find the right words.” After years harboring that corrosive secret, the notion of revealing it frightened and relieved Enid in equal measure.

  Gaynor leaned back against the wall, shaking her head as if she could not bring herself to believe the outrageous charge to which she’d made Enid confess.

  “God have mercy on you,” she whispered as she made a hasty sign of the cross. “My poor lambs. What’ll become of my poor lambs?”

  “Go to bed, Gaynor, and try not to fret over it more than you can help. We’ll sort all this out when Con comes back.”

  After treating Enid to a reproachful stare, Gaynor shuffled off to her brychan, shaking her head and muttering to herself.

  Exhausted by their encounter as she never had been by a hard day’s work, Enid retired to her own darkened chamber for a restless night’s sleep that only deepened in the early hours of the morning. The children were up and gone by the time Gaynor’s wailing woke her.

  She ran out of her chamber barefoot, wearing nothing over her smock. “What’s wrong? Is Glyneira under attack?”

  Idwal glanced up from his harried efforts to console his wife. “It’s Bryn. The boy’s…gone.”

  “The folk at Glyneira will be rising for the day, now,” Con reminded Lord Macsen as the two of them inspected Falconbridge Keep, three days after they’d ridden from Enid’s maenol in such haste. “I wonder what they’d say if they knew we were in possession of FitzLaurent’s castle with scarcely a scratch among us?”

  “Probably the same thing I say.” The border lord gave Con a hearty clout on the back that almost brought him to his knees. “That you’re the wiliest warrior Wales has raised in many a year.”

  Con thought back over their audacious ruse. How he had ridden up to the gate of the keep just before dawn in Norman armor he had borrowed from a Revelstone messenger who’d blundered into their party. “The luckiest, perhaps.”

  In Norman French he’d bellowed a call for reinforcements to ride to their lord’s aid at Hen Coed. Con could not fault the speed with which FitzLaurent’s remaining garrison answered the bogus summons. He had gambled everything on the Norman penchant for obeying an order without question.

  They had not disappointed him.

  “Don’t be modest.” Lord Macsen flashed one of his rare, brief smiles. “Leave that to the priests. I’ll own, I sweat a bucketful while we waited to see if they would take the bait.”

  But take it they had. And when the last horseman had ridden out of Falconbridge, half of the Powys force had stormed in, disarming the skeleton of a garrison before they knew what was happening. Outside the stout keep walls, the mounted “reinforcements” found themselves surrounded by a ring of stout Welsh archers with short bows drawn, and had seen the prudence in a swift, bloodless surrender.

  “I owe you more than I can repay, Con ap Ifan.” The border chief shook his head, as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. “When all this is over, you have only to name your reward and I will do anything in my power to grant it.”

  “No need for rewards or even thanks, my lord.” Con’s conscience smarted. If not for his interference, this good man might have been wed to Enid by now. What he had done so far scarcely began to atone. “This serves me at least as well as it serves you.”

  Since Lord Macsen had not been the first to attack at his provocation, Con could still live with himself. “FitzLaurent need never know how we came by that armor from Revelstone. Instead, let us hope he’ll suspect his Norman neighbor of treachery and be so busy guarding his back that he will have no attention to spare for further attacks on Powys. Any falling out among Stephen’s allies will please the Empress.”

  They climbed a steep stair and gazed out over the battlements toward Wales.

  “Are you still set on returning to the Holy Land when your mission for the Empress is finished?” Lord Macsen glanced sidelong at Con.

  Around campfires on the two nights of their journey, the border chief had drawn Con out about his past mercenary service and his future plans. Con had talked at length, in part to prove he knew a thing or two about warfare, and in even greater measure because he found himself drawn to this quiet, formidable man now that the smoke of jealousy had cleared from his eyes.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Lord Macsen nodded toward the faint line of Offa’s Dyke away in the distance. “Wales needs men of your cunning, my friend, if we’re to have any hope of holding the Normans at bay in the years to come.”

  Gazing west, toward the rolling English countryside, Con shook his head. “I’ve lived among the Normans too long. I’d be caught between the ocean and the rocks every time.”

  It also went without saying there would be no gold and little glory in defending this small, endangered land. A line in some ballad, perhaps, that would be forgotten in a hundred years when tiny Wales had finally been conquered and her people no longer even spoke their own tongue.

  Somehow, Con found himself ashamed to voice such reasons in Lord Macsen’s hearing. So he did what glib folk always do in an awkward situation—he changed the subject. “Now that you’ve seen Falconbridge from within, are you sure you want to exchange it for Hen Coed?”

  The border lord levelled a wry gaze at him. “I am.”

  “And do you trust me to drive a hard bargain with FitzLaurent on your behalf?”

  “I do.”

  For some reason, those curt words made Con’s eyes sting. He hid his feelings behind a mask of hearty banter. “In that case, I reckon I had better set out for Powys while I have plenty of daylight to find my way. Just to be safe, I hope you can spare me a guide or two.”

  Lord Macsen started down the steep steps to the bailey. “Take your pick.”

  A few hours after he had ridden into Falconbridge, Con rode out again on one of Martial FitzLaurent’s own steeds, along with Gerriant ap Owain and Lord Macsen’s nephew, Rhys ap Rhys.

  After a day’s hard riding, they presented themselves at Hen Coed where they were hauled, none too gently, before the Marcher lord, Martial FitzLaurent of Falconbridge.

  “What manner of pitiful war party is this?” FitzLaurent wrinkled his aquiline nose at Con, Rhys and Gerriant as if they stank to high heaven. “I expected little enough, but three men is an insult.”

  Thoug
h the Norman equalled Macsen ap Gryffith in his impressive height, his body was far leaner and his face composed of straight planes and sharp angles—a Norman wolf to the Welsh bear. He had hair the shade of ripe acorns and eyes the cool, dangerous gray of freshly whetted iron. At a glance, Con knew the man was not an opponent to trifle with.

  Sinking into a bow so deep it verged dangerously on mockery, Con answered in his best Norman French. “Macsen ap Gryffith means no insult to your lordship. He has not sent us to fight, but to parlay with you.”

  The Marcher lord quickly hid whatever astonishment he might have felt at hearing a Welshman address him so fluently in his own language. “Is that so, indeed? Pray, what is there to negotiate, except perhaps his surrender?”

  Oh, this fellow was as arrogant as Con had heard. He bit back a smile at the thought of what a necessary lesson in humility Martial FitzLaurent would soon receive, concentrating instead on the job he must do for Lord Macsen and for Powys. A job that felt as though he’d been training for it all his life.

  “Lord Macsen does not intend to surrender, sire. He sent me to work out an exchange with you for Hen Coed.”

  “The gall of the fellow!” FitzLaurent seated himself on a large chair with intricate carving on each of its stout legs.

  He made a dismissive gesture around the hall that was larger and better appointed than the one at Glyneira. “I’ll own it is a mean place and worth little, but what can he possibly have to bargain with?”

  “He has Falconbridge, sire.” Con fought to curb a gloating tone that his voice wanted so badly to take. “I trust you would like to get it back.”

  “Ridiculous!” The Marcher lord surged up from his seat again, as though it burned his backside. “Does your master think I am a simpleton to give back what I have taken for the sake of so wild a claim? I should have your tongue cut out for this impudence!”

  Gerriant and Rhys had clearly understood little of what had passed between Con and the Marcher lord, but they recognized the tone of a threat when they heard it. Both stepped closer to Con and adopted a menacing stance that announced anyone wishing to harm him would have to deal with them first.

  “Be easy, now,” Con cautioned them in Welsh. “Once he understands that we truly hold his castle, this haughty fellow will learn some manners, I daresay.”

  He dropped back into the Norman tongue again. “Naturally, sire, my master knows you would not credit a claim of this kind without proof.”

  From the scrip on his belt, Con drew out a number of small objects and handed each one to the speechless Marcher lord: an ivory miniature of the Virgin, a letter bearing the King’s seal, and a lady’s hair ornament wrought in silver.

  “If you pay a visit to the stables,” Con said, “you may recognize the gelding I rode here on. The beast does you credit. I found him surefooted and good-tempered.”

  FitzLaurent stared longest at the hair ornament, all traces of mockery erased from his aristocratic features. “You…took this from my lady sister?”

  “She gave it, sire, and most obliging, too, once I explained the need. You mustn’t fret for her. Lord Macsen is an honorable man and the lady has her confessor to bear witness that no one transgressed against her virtue.”

  The full meaning of what he held in his hands seemed finally to dawn on the lord of Falconbridge.

  “Welsh treachery!” He hurled the innocent objects to the floor. “You will pay for this!”

  “Treachery is it?” For an instant, Con let his tact slip. “We have a saying in my country, Lord Falconbridge, that the hearth shouldn’t call the soot black. Remember who attacked first.”

  The Norman looked ready for another outburst, but managed to master his temper. “So this Macsen wishes to make an exchange of his stronghold for mine? And who are you to bargain on his behalf?”

  “Conwy ap Ifan at your service, sire.” Con bowed again, but less deep. “Lord Macsen bid me deal for him in this matter since I speak your tongue. You must recognize that we can hardly make a straight trade, Hen Coed for Falconbridge. As you said yourself, this is but a mean place and worth little compared with your fine stone keep.”

  For the first time since they’d arrived, Lord Falcon-bridge looked at Con with something akin to respect. “You may speak one civilized language, Welshman, but you have an impudent tongue in your head, like all your race.”

  “Thank you, sire.”

  “That was no compliment.”

  Con grinned. “Not to you, perhaps.”

  Again the Marcher lord swallowed the worst of his ire. “What is it you want?”

  “No more than a fair bargain, sire.” Con tried not to gloat. “I feel bound to point out that Hen Coed seems to have suffered some damage before it fell to your capture, whereas Falconbridge has not a hinge bent nor a chip in the mortar. You are welcome to inspect it yourself.”

  “So Macsen may snatch me as a hostage? I think not. Now state your terms.”

  “I strike a more generous bargain when my belly is full and my throat well dampened, sire,” suggested Con.

  FitzLaurent stabbed his forefinger toward the three men. “Do not push too far, Welshman.”

  He turned away from them and remained silent for a moment. Then, as if to demonstrate the idea was his own, he called to one of his men at arms who stood guard on the door, “Bring us food and drink if there is either fit to consume in this glorified pigsty.”

  A short time later the food and drink arrived in the hands of an older woman, who exchanged a fond look with Rhys. While the Welshmen dined, Con and FitzLaurent traded offers and counteroffers. At last, when Con judged he had wrung all the concessions from his opponent that he was likely to get, they struck a bargain.

  After a night’s sleep they began a second round of talks. This time to work out the details of how an exchange would be effected between two enemies who distrusted one another so profoundly. Once again Con bargained hard and came away pleased with what he had secured for Macsen ap Gryffith and the Welsh in this border area of Powys.

  He liked this diplomacy business, Con admitted to his surprise. He found it every bit as exhilarating as armed warfare but far less bloody. In some ways, it seemed like the kind of combat he’d been born for. His middling stature and spare frame were no handicap in this contest of wits and nerve, while his knack for languages, his amiable manner and his ability to see both sides of a question had proven clear advantages.

  “One last thing,” FitzLaurent said as Con’s party prepared to leave for Falconbridge where they would begin the exchange of holdings.

  “Sire?” Con plundered his memory in an effort to recall if there’d been anything he’d neglected to include in the negotiations.

  A slow smile of triumph curled the corners of the Marcher lord’s thin lips. “A small matter of the boy.”

  As he heard those words, every hair on the back of Con’s neck bristled.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Her boy, alone and fleeing headlong into the middle of a border battle—the notion made Enid’s belly churn as her white pony jogged along beside the stocky brown beast that belonged to Father Thomas. If she’d let Bryn go with Lord Macsen’s party, under Con’s protection, her son would probably be safe now. And if she’d told him the truth about his father, the shock of overhearing her and Gaynor would not have sent him hurtling into danger.

  Maternal instinct told Enid that must have been what had happened. She’d clutched her son too tightly, as Con had warned her against, with just the consequences he’d predicted. Now regret gnawed at her heart.

  When she could no longer bear the weight of such thoughts, Enid tried to distract herself by addressing her escort. “How soon will we be there, Father?”

  Since she’d come to Powys thirteen years ago, she had never ventured so far from Glyneira. Along with the regrets and fears for her son, an unexpected sense of liberty stirred within her. For once, instead of cowering behind the timber walls of the maenol and sending men out to deal with the world o
n her behalf, she was sallying forth to meet the challenge head-on.

  For the first time, Enid acknowledged a grudging sympathy for Con’s need to be engaged with the wide world beyond any family hearth. Though she would never fully share it, a least it no longer seemed like willful madness.

  “Less than five miles until we reach St. Mynver’s.” Father Thomas looked pleased with the chance for a jaunt away from his isolated parish.

  They had taken refuge the previous night in a small priory and now they were bound for a Benedictine abbey not far from Hen Coed. If Bryn had any sense, he might have gone there to seek food or information. Much as she hoped so, Enid doubted her impetuous son had exercised such prudence.

  “I pray they have some news for us of my boy, or at least of how matters stand between Hen Coed and Falcon-bridge, so I can begin searching for him.”

  Father Thomas drew back his cowl to let the spring sun warm his round, tonsured head. “If anyone hereabouts knows aught, you may be certain Abbot Peter will have made it his business.”

  “A little worldly for the cloister, is he?” Enid cast a sidelong glance at the priest. “If he has news of Bryn, I’ll forgive Father Abbot for being the worst busybody in all Powys.”

  They rode the rest of the way to the abbey in silence as Enid kept a sharp eye out for any sign her son had passed that way.

  The porter of St. Mynver’s opened the wicket to admit them. “The abbey is buzzing with guests today. Father Abbot will be as happy as a pig in a warm wallow.”

  As Father Thomas laughed at the jest, Enid’s anxious gaze searched the cloister. “Your other guests, Brother Porter, was one of them a dark-headed boy, a little taller than me?”

  The monk shook his head. “No boys, Mistress. But the chief of Hen Coed and the lord of Falconbridge, both. I’m not privy to what that’s all about. Some trading of captured domain, I hear tell.”

  Just then a familiar figure emerged into the cloister garth.