The Silver Bride

by Isolde Martyn

  ‘Are you worried that I lack company? Only think, sir, if you and I were not concerned about an annulment, I could invite you in.’

  A murrain on the witch!

  ‘Heloise,’ Miles suppressed the urge to shake her, ‘after the way you behaved tonight, I wonder there is not a queue a mile long outside your door.’

  ‘Explain yourself, sir.’ Icy hauteur laced each word, and now laughter no longer mellowed the air between them, he felt inexplicably bereft.

  ‘Indeed, I shall, madam.’ He swept his sleeves behind him and paced from her, seeking words that would enforce his grave concern and achieve some revenge. ‘It is true that a married woman may behave with less modesty than an unmarried maiden, but your attempts to behave with more worldliness fall rather short of the mark.’ He paused, thinking he had couched matters with finesse.

  Her plain answer was a shock. ‘You mean I need more experience?’

  ‘Jesu, madam, will you hold your tongue!’ He put a hand to his forehead, distraught by her ability to thwart him. ‘You may be too innocent to be aware that every man in the hall was calculating whether you were fair game tonight. Do you understand what I am saying? I can scarcely make my meaning clearer.’

  ‘I think you are wrong, for there is no queue, sir.’ Her sleeve fluttered as she gestured to the lonely stone walls surrounding them. ‘Only you.’

  Was she playing games with him? He wished this conversation was lit by cressets so he might read her face. He clenched his jaw and tried again.

  ‘I offer you warning as a friend. You tread a dangerous path with such behaviour, leaving yourself open to … to seduction, or worse.’ He strode away and turned, hands thrust on waist and legs astride. ‘I am telling you, mistress, if we are to dispense with this despicable marriage of ours, you must remain inviolated.’

  He was aware of her stillness, unable to tell in the darkness whether it was resentment that kept the words back.

  ‘How very unjust,’ she answered with a sigh. ‘You may whore as you please and I must remain as unassailable as Pen-y-Fan.’

  ‘You mistake me, madam. I do not whore,’ he snarled, his anger up and snapping like a mastiff. He paced from her before he lost control completely and – and throttled her. Why did she have to provoke him so? He had not bruised her ears about this morning and he was trying to point out the dangers and – ‘and Pen-y-Fan is not unassailable,’ he muttered pedantically, adding ambiguously, ‘I know the way up.’

  With impeccable timing, she allowed the boast to fall awkwardly into the void between them before she remarked with deceptive sweetness, ‘Indeed, I hear you have explored most of the local hillsides. It is common gossip that the duke keeps whores in Llechfaen and Llanfaes. I suppose you do too. Even Bess thinks you are dangerous, but worth consideration. How did Myfannwy take to you?’ That drew a ripe oath. ‘There is no need to swear like that, sir. I am merely observing that—’

  ‘Mistress, be silent!’ Why was it that every time he tried to point out her errors to her, she held up a mirror to show him his faults? ‘Let me be plain, madam. While you are married to me, you will refrain from dalliance.’ At least she was keeping a meek, respectful silence at long last and Miles continued: ‘I am saying this for your own good. When Holy Church frees us from our oaths, you, lady, must have a reputation as pure as unsullied snow if you wish to find yourself a noble husband. People do not like to be made fools of and, believe me, the world will not look kindly on you for being a maiden and behaving like a …’ Pricktease had been the word that came crudely to mind but that was too harsh a term for her vivacious spirits and too foul a word to be used before any lady of gentle upbringing.

  ‘—like a mistress?’ retorted Heloise helpfully and received a growl for an answer. Had she rendered him speechless at last? ‘How is it you never told me you were to be wed before this morning?’ she asked, an edge of anger in her tone.

  ‘Your father knew.’ Miles’s tone was careless. Now that he had finally succeeded in annoying her, his amusement returned. ‘Jealous?’

  ‘Oh, excessively. I shall warn your bride you may not keep your vows.’ Her voice dropped, ‘What do you intend to do with me, Cysgod, gag me for the duration?’

  Oh, she had spirit. There was no denying that he might even miss her as a friend by the time he finally managed to catapult her from his life.

  ‘By all the saints, lady, you and I are in agreement that our marriage should be annulled, are we not?’ Why would she not look at him? ‘I have arranged for another letter to be delivered that will enable you to leave and leave you shall! Must I be plainer? I want you out of here before I break your infuriating neck.’

  ‘Is Myfannwy what you want?’

  It was her cat arching against his bootcuff out of the darkness that staunched a more honest answer. ‘Jesu, madam,’ he caught his breath. ‘It is not just a handfast.’ He slammed his hand against the wall and turned. Dafydd hissed. ‘The duke wants this alliance and I want her lands, do you hear me? I will compensate you with a house … in Hereford … London, next to the pyramids in Egypt if it pleases me better, but utter one word against my betrothal and—’ He glanced meaningfully past her at the bailey below. ‘Remember, I hanged a man this morning.’

  Heloise swallowed, retreating against the wooden planks. ‘I am not afraid of you.’

  ‘Well, you should be, sweet heart.’

  ‘Neither you nor your duke can go against Holy Church,’ she protested. ‘Our marr—’

  He caught her chin. ‘Oh, but we can.’

  ‘How?’ she exclaimed, jerking her face away. ‘Only the Pope can grant an annulment.’

  ‘An annulment, yes. But a bishop may bring a charge of heresy.’

  Her tone was freezing. ‘What are you saying, sir?’

  ‘Just that I would not keep this cat if I were you.’

  His unwanted wife flinched as though Miles had struck her. Gathering up the creature, the girl turned away, hugging it to her heart, stroking its ears as she stared forlornly towards the keep, but even the cat played traitor, and sprang to the wooden boards between them.

  ‘Going to turn me into a rat?’ Miles snarled, hiding his self-loathing.

  ‘Why should I. You are one already!’

  “Christ’s mercy! Must you reduce everything to feelings? This alliance is—’

  ‘I … do not think it is sensible for us to continue this conversation any longer.’ She turned, drawing herself straight as a lady on a tomb. ‘Besides, Sir Miles, as you have so painstakingly pointed out in such delicate language, if you, sir, are seen talking to me here, it will unquestionably ruin my reputation beyond redempt—’

  ‘I will see you in Hell!’ he exclaimed with feeling and returned to the feast.

  *

  Miles spent the following day blissfully hunting with the duke and his guests, but he returned to ill news from Bess. It seemed that Lady Haute planned to visit the town with the harpist. Damn her! So, before the fires were covered for the night and all the castle gates were bolted, Miles, clad in homespun and a black cloak that enveloped him from head to heels, unlatched the postern and stole forth behind his quarry.

  In the April dusk, Miles could almost map his way by the doors: the Honddu carrying the ordure of the castle to the Usk, the perfume of the violets thriving upon the bank, the cloying scents used by the chandlers at North Gate, then other stinks wafting from the town: the cooking smokes of sea coal and firewood, the uglier smell of boiling meat, fresh dung congealing between the uneven cobblestones, rotting refuse mashed by cartwheels, and at Water Gate, the clean smell of planed wood from the joiner’s yard hard by.

  But there was also the earthy scent of rain and it was splashing down by the time Miles reached Morgannok Street at the far end of the town. The downpour reduced the sound of his footsteps on the cobbles and let him follow closer. The old man set his arm on Heloise Ballaster’s and drew her into the courtyard of an alehouse, but by the time Miles had traversed the puddl
ed rear of the tavern, they had vanished.

  Godsakes, he cursed as he let himself out through the wattle fence into a laneway, he should leave the rebellious wench to her peril save that he did not want some lout fumbling up the foolish innocent’s skirts.

  Finding an overhang for shelter, he halted. Above the rain, he heard the river lapping close but where, ye saints, was the plaguey music? What now? Perhaps St Cecily was being charitable, for the shower abated and a poignant cascade of music from Emrys’s harp lured him along the sandstone wall that edged the alley. At the third gate, he tried the latch.

  ‘Pwy sy na?’ snorted a woman’s voice.

  ‘Rhyddid i Gymru,’ he murmured. ‘Cerddoriaeth uned ni.’

  Satisfied, the woman led him through a passageway, dark as Purgatory and stinking of stale urine and spilt ale, and down stone steps into a hot cellar lit by naught but a blazing fire. It was some sort of forge. The smoke stung his eyes before he was able to make out a dozen or so people perched on sacks or crates. All Welsh, he guessed. One fellow cradled a stretched hide with jingles in its frame, another nursed a viola. Ruddy in the flickering flames, Emrys’s thicket brows and flowing hair, rivuletting over his bared forearms, gave him the mien of Welsh god, Govannon the weapon-maker. The slender shadow beside him, sensibly hooded, must be Heloise. Save for a man and woman conversing in whispers to his left, they were all listening to the singer, a huge man in his forties, sweaty-faced, black-maned and fiercely bearded, with a belly that overstretched his belt, and an ale pot in his hand.

  Miles slid into the darkest corner, but did not hesitate to intercept the leather bottle being passed around. The contents nearly ripped the inside from his throat.

  Despite his quarryman’s complexion, the singer’s voice was wondrously rich. His huge ribcage, built for resonance, threw out so ardent a song of reprisal against the English that Miles, whose Welsh was keen enough to understand most of it, felt his blood run cold.

  I will strike with the sword of Cyffin,

  With my naked hands I shall deal

  A blow to that cheating town yonder.

  From Rhos at sunrise, I shall reach

  Dark Chester, by nightfall.

  O let me kill, if my day dawns,

  Two thousand with the blade of Dafydd.

  As the last verse ended to cheers and laughter, the only Englishman in their midst was rigid, anxious to leave. A rebellion? Christ!

  ‘Pah, Lewis,’ taunted someone. ‘Why brawl over an English whore when there are plenty of pretty tits in Wales to fondle!’ Miles reddened, both thankful that Heloise could not understand their crudity, and ashamed of his suspicions; there might be treason, but this song was merely a personal feud.

  The viola player was urging Emrys back into the firelight. God’s rood, the old man was girted! The first soul-wrenching plaintive chords banished the bawdy laughter. The mountains and woods of Wales surged into Miles’s consciousness. He could hear the rain in the song lashing the leaves. Like a mythical hero, he strode beside the singer down the slopes and stood beside the splashing streams.

  Not like the growling curse,

  That makes the great tide

  And brings the wintry cold.

  Not like the scolding words,

  That make miry torrents of the streams

  And a full roar in the river’s throat.

  Oh, why is the day so raw and angry?

  Speak gently and bid the sky

  No more to glower,

  Nor cast a veil across the moon.

  Setting down his harp, Emrys cleared his throat, breaking the spell that bound them to their memories. ‘I have a surprise,’ he announced. ‘I brought with me a young woman from the castle.’

  ‘Surprise! Emrys, you old dotard,’ muttered someone. ‘Will you get us hanged?’

  ‘No, rest you, am I a block, an ass? I tell you she understands not one word of our speech but she sings like an angel. You must hear her.

  ‘Uncover. Free your hair,’ he said in English, rising to take his guest by the wrist. At least she was refusing. ‘Be yourself, bach,’ Emrys was saying, setting back her hood with a bardlike authority. ‘It matters not if you are wife or maid, lad or lady. All are equal among my people, wel di.’

  As if she was under an enchantment, Heloise removed the coif and shook her braids free like an elfin maid for all to see. Silver hair tumbled over her plain russet kirtle like living metal in the fire’s light. Did she not understand the danger? At night men are spellcast but in the day they see, they remember, differently.

  ‘Sing, arianlais, as I taught you.’

  Her voice, husky at first, warmed to a beautiful clarity, the words powerful and wrenching, a trumpet to arms against her countrymen.

  Powys, gwlad ffraethlwys ffrwythlawn.

  Pêr heilgyrn pefr defyrn dwn

  A oedd berllan gyfannedd

  Cynllad doethwas âglas gledd.

  Bellach y mae, wae wedd-dawd

  Adlaw beirdd, awdl heb urddas.

  Did she understand? She sang it so poignantly that Miles felt a sadness to choke because he knew the words in his own tongue – the hatred and the hope:

  Powys, generous, beautiful, a fertile land,

  Full of welcome, bright taverns and plentiful carousing,

  Ah, once it was a wondrous orchard

  Until a sharp lad was slain by cold grey steel.

  Now it is a land of widows,

  A territory for hawks, with no songbirds anymore.

  ‘More!’ Slapping their thighs, the musicians were openhanded in praise. Even Heloise, cheeks pink as gillyflowers, understood. She shook her head and rose from the singer’s stool, but she let them press a cup into her hand, and was both thirsty and exultant enough to gulp it down.

  ‘Un arall? Iechyd da!’ Laughing, they filled it again and the bard called Lewis heaved himself back and launched into a ribald drinking song. Others joined in – the man with the wooden flute and the young tabor player – but their eyes, like everyone else’s, kept flickering back to the Englishwoman. The nervous sipping betrayed her naiveté though she seemed at ease, smiling as they teased her in Welsh. Two of the men grew lewd in their remarks and Emrys, although his voice was calm so as not to panic their visitor, sat down beside her protectively, hissing rebukes.

  Mercy, how long before the old man took her back? How much drink would they tip down her? She was whispering to Emrys, who beckoned one of the women over; she needed the latrine. At last! Miles slid off the palliasse by the wall and stealthily made his way to the door.

  He heard the women’s voices ahead in the yard. With luck he might get her away now but two of the Welsh had come out to relieve themselves against the wall. The rain had cleared and a moon, splendid as a pagan scimitar, was free of clouds.

  As Miles stole out to hinder his wife, fierce arms grabbed him and drew him kicking back to the cellar. Rough hands flung him on his front, wrenching his right arm behind his back. Someone seized a flaming faggot from the fire and thrust it towards his head. Miles preferred to breathe in the dust than struggle for air and be recognised.

  ‘We have a spy, it seems.’ Someone thrust back his hood and seized a fistful of hair, trying to make him show his face.

  ‘Mistress!’ Miles mimicked a servant’s shriek, as he heard the women returning.

  The cold air of the passageway must have slapped Heloise’s senses clear for she pushed in between his captors.

  ‘Mistress,’ he wailed as pitifully as he could, squinting to see Heloise’s face. She was blinking at the sleek, greased hair plastered back from his brow. Was there light enow? Was she sober enough to know him in disguise? Well, if her fey mind was open to messages, she had better receive this one or he was a dead man.

  Heloise wobbled, she put a hand to her mouth and then gave a bubbly laugh. ‘You think … Oh no, this is my servant,’ she spluttered, taking the brand and tossing it back in the embers. ‘You knave!’ She waggled a finger close to his nose. ‘I told
you not to disclose yourself.’ Her drunken giggles were not subsiding.

  ‘What’s he adoin’ skulkin’ around in the shadows outside?’ His captor gave another vicious jerk upon his arm.

  ‘Let me go, masters,’ Miles wailed, his nose pressed hard against the dirt. ‘Don’t let ’em harm me, mistress.’

  ‘I thought I could trust you not to bring strangers into our midst, Emrys,’ bawled Lewis, no longer indulgent. ‘And a sais too.’

  ‘I never saw him afore.’ Suspicion larded the old man’s English.

  ‘No, no, of course you have not,’ Heloise answered cheerfully. ‘He is but late from Kent.’ Miles watched like a Cyclops as Heloise patted the minstrel’s sleeve. Evidently she had perceived the rivalry between the bards. ‘Master Emrys, I-I am sorry. No disrespect, but I felt I needed a doughtier escort to see me back.’

  ‘Doughtier! Pah!’ Lewis’s guffaw of laughter was reassuring them. ‘You need a real man, benyw!’ His hand patted his codpiece.

  Miles’s arm was freed. He moved it painfully forwards and stayed face down. The humility irked him but it was safest.

  ‘Get up, man.’ Heloise nudged him with her foot. ‘They mean you no harm.’ He lifted himself onto his hands and knees, blowing his cheeks out sulkily to give his lean face more breadth. His wife sat down again, spreading her skirts, and indicated that he should sit at her feet, so he snatched up his ale cup and lumbered across to her, rubbing his face to mask his cheeks and remembering to keep his shoulders bent in servile fashion to hide his true height.

  ‘Two songs more and then I must leave,’ she exclaimed merrily and raised her cup toasting them all. ‘My servant will see me back, Emrys. You must stay and sing again. Make music until morning. Here, Tom.’ She tilted her cup and poured half its contents into Miles’s.