Dark and Bright

by Anna Markland

  “You’re up early,” the Prioress teased. “We assumed you would be much later to rise.”

  Rhys smirked. “Carys, your sister, the Prioress, shows altogether too much knowledge about a man and his bride and what they do in the marriage chamber.”

  Myfanwy laughed—a warm laugh he remembered from their childhood. “I may be a Prioress, little brother, but I’m not dead.”

  Smiling, Carys took Annalise off to greet others, and Myfanwy turned to Rhys. “You look happy, Rhys.”

  “I am happy,” he replied truthfully.

  His sister’s face took on a stern expression, made all the more severe by her coif and veil. “Remember what our parents have always told us, there is more to happiness than passion. You must make room in your heart for love. But here am I lecturing you and I’m just a lonely nun!”

  Before he could reply, she went on, “Speaking of parents, Father isn’t well.”

  He pursed his lips and scratched his head. “Yes, I know. I hope he improves before we get to Powwydd. I want him to meet Annalise.”

  ***

  The distance from Chester to the llys where Rhys and his siblings had spent most of their childhood wasn’t great, but the terrain was difficult. They rode through muddy fields and over treacherous rocky paths. The journey, and the apprehension she felt at the unknown fate that awaited her, exhausted Annalise. Rhys was considerate of her needs as they travelled and sensitive to her fears. He told her stories of his parents and siblings. Never having known such a loving family circumstance, she felt comforted by his tales. However, she sensed he was nervous about something. They rode in silence for quite a way until he said, “Annalise, I love my home at Llys Powwydd, but it’s not—well, it’s not really a castle.”

  Her heart fluttered. “You said it was a royal court.”

  “It is,” he replied immediately. “But you Normans have been building castles in your homeland for many years, whereas here, my llys is more like a manor.”

  “I don’t understand, Rhys.”

  “The Welsh royal courts, we call them llysoed, are comfortable, and Powwydd is protected by a sturdy wall and two moats, but most of it isn’t made of stone.”

  She was plucking up courage to ask what they were made of when he carried on. “The hall, the neuadd, is made of timbers, though the footings are dry stonework. But many of the other buildings, where we have our chambers and storage barns are made of earth and straw. It sounds—”

  She shook her head and reached to put a hand on his arm. “Rhys, my father has spent many years ruining our family castle at Vymont. I am used to not having every comfort.”

  Rhys smiled at her. “But I want you to have every comfort. We are improving things gradually, learning from you Normans, ironically enough. And you can be assured there is always a roaring fire in the hearth to warm your bones! As well we have ty bach.”

  She wondered why his face had reddened and looked at him curiously. He winked. “I believe you Normans call it the garderobe.”

  Now it was her turn to blush. “I suppose I should learn that word first. Just in case.”

  He laughed and nodded. By now they had reached the causeway that straddled the first moat. It seemed to be oval shaped and black as night. She shuddered at its depth and was relieved when they reached the flat-topped bank that separated it from the inner moat, also oval, but not as menacing. She could see that most of the roof of—what had Rhys called it?—the llys—was thatched.

  By the time she entered his home, she had warmed to him considerably, but was afraid to admit her feelings. How could she hope that a successful man of the world such as Rhys might love her? Important men sought his opinion. He was a leader among his people, the son of a Welsh legend. She was the daughter of an impoverished, drunken Norman noble.

  When they arrived, stable boys came out to take their horses. She could tell Rhys was content to be home, but concerned for his father. He took her straightaway to meet his sire. They found him sitting by the hearth in the neuadd, wrapped in a blanket, Rhonwen hovering at his side. His breathing was laboured, and despite the blanket and the warmth of the flames, he looked cold. But he was still a very powerful presence. Annalise recognized instantly from whom her husband had inherited his features and his character.

  Rhys embraced his father. The elderly man reached up and fingered Rhys’s beads, then smiled at him. Rhys clasped his hand over his father’s, then spoke proudly in English. She was grateful he recognised she would be completely lost in Welsh. “Father, please greet my wife, Annalise de Vymont.”

  He placed her hand in his father’s. Rhodri took it and she felt the warmth emanating from her father-by-marriage.

  “Annalise,” he rasped, breathing heavily. “You’ve come a great distance to make my son happy.”

  “Milord Rhodri,” she replied in her halting English, her eyes filling with tears as she saw a glimpse of her future. “I am wife to your son. I will serve him, and be the mother of his children.”

  Rhodri shook his head, drew her closer to him and whispered, “But will you love him, daughter? Rhys needs to be loved.”

  She turned her head, gripped his still powerful hand and whispered, “I am learning to love him, milord.”

  Rhodri relaxed visibly. She stole a glance at Rhys, who looked puzzled.

  His father turned to Annalise and whispered, “But you haven’t told him that, have you?”

  She gazed into the jade green eyes of the aged warrior and reluctantly shook her head. “It’s too complicated,” she whispered, amazed she could share such confidences with an elderly man she’d just met. He’d spent his life fighting Normans, yet he’d said not one word of recrimination that she was a Norman.

  “It’s never too complicated,” he said. “You’ll take care of my beloved son.”

  His head fell forward. Had he fallen asleep? She extracted her hand from his grip, awed by the power of this dying man’s aura.

  Rhys took her hand, kissed it and led her from the room. “What did you tell him that made him happy?” he asked.

  She felt the flush redden her face. “Er—nothing. I gave him—how do you say? Un petit baiser.”

  Rhys looked at her strangely. “A little kiss?”

  She smiled. “Oui. I thought it only polite.”

  ***

  Rhonwen moved from the shadows to take care of the warrior she’d loved passionately. He lifted his head slowly and turned to her. Barely able to draw breath, he rasped, “Rhonwen, you’ve shared my life with me—despite the hardships—and have given me more pleasure and fulfillment than any man has a right to. I’m sorry to leave you—but I’m content that Myfanywy has found her calling as a Prioress—Carys is happily married to Baudoin de Montbryce—who would have thought of that possibility? Our daughter, a Countess! And Rhun and Rydderch—well, who can predict with two such flamboyant redheads? But I’ve worried—about Rhys. He’s very much your son, Rhonwen—now I’m confident he has found a woman who loves him—I can die content.”

  Rhonwen wiped away her tears. “Rhodri, you’ve been the reason for my existence since we first met many years ago in Cadair Berwyn. I came there as your captive, and I’ve remained captivated by your love since then. If you leave me now, I won’t be far behind.”

  “Kiss me, my lovely Rhonwen,” were his last words.

  Rhodri ap Owain ap Dafydd ap Gwilym was a warrior until the day he died at the age of three score years. His passion for Wales never abated and neither did his selfless love for Rhonwen, who died a few short days after him, to be mourned by all Rhodri’s people in Powwydd. They loved her for the faithful and loving healer she’d been to them. Many owed their lives to her considerable skills and talents. They were both interred in the burial chamber near the fortress of Cadair Berwyn as they’d requested. It was where they’d met.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Annalise stood in awe of the mountain fortress of Cadair Berwyn, buffeted by the wind, cloaked in furs and blankets, with Rhys and his grieving
family. The majestic scenery took her breath away. She listened to her husband and his brother-by-marriage tell the tales of Rhonwen’s life-and-death struggle with Morwenna, of Rhodri’s slaying of the would-be assassin Phillippe de Giroux, of the courage of Mabelle de Montbryce as she birthed Baudoin’s sister, Rhoni, in the remote mountain hideaway. She remembered being told at her wedding of Baudoin’s kidnapping with his mother and Rhys’s mother and the twists and turns fate had taken to intertwine the two families since then. She had a new understanding of Carys, Countess of Ellesmere, and her husband.

  Rhys felt the loss of his parents keenly and Annalise held him close as he grieved. She’d been relieved when her own father had died. She and her brother cared little for each other. She pondered in her heart how to generate such love and loyalty among the children she would bear to Rhys. It was foreign to her family experience and she was married to a man who didn’t love her. Now that he was Prince of Powwydd, she would be the chatelaine of his castle, his llys. She could barely speak their language and doubted the people would welcome a Norman with open arms.

  ***

  Rhys heard a commotion in the kitchens. He and Annalise had arrived home from Cadair Berwyn only two days before. He was glad to be back in Powwydd, but grief hung in the air. His father and mother had been well loved.

  Was it his wife’s voice he could hear? As he entered the hot, smoky confines of the foodhouse, situated between the neuadd and the outer buildings, he had to force down a grin. Beside the huge kiln, Cook stood like a statue, gazing at the ceiling, his teeth gritted, his hands on his hips, his face even redder than usual. Annalise was holding forth in her language, her hands gesticulating wildly. Two scullery maids looked on, their mouths open, eyes darting from Cook to their new mistress and back again.

  Rhys took a deep breath. Would he be diplomat enough to handle this skirmish? A lot was riding on it. Annalise stopped in mid-sentence when she saw him. She was breathing heavily, her breasts rising and falling. He licked his lips. She put her hands on her hips and opened her mouth to speak to him. He strode towards her, his hands outstretched. “Can I help?”

  She closed her mouth. Cook looked at him and opened his. Rhys shot him a glare and shook his head slightly. Cook closed his mouth.

  Annalise took a deep breath and held his hands firmly. “I wanted to give some suggestions about improving the food served here, but this—this—man does not wish to listen.”

  Rhys looked at Cook, who had resumed his examination of the ceiling, his arms folded tightly across his chest, and then looked back at his wife. This was a delicate situation, and he had better not laugh. “Dear wife, explain to me what it is you want, and I’ll tell him in his language. He has been Cook here for many years, and his father before him.”

  Annalise glanced at the Cook and pouted, her eyes wide. “His food is bland. If he adds some herbs and spices, it will be better.”

  Rhys turned to the Cook. He cleared his throat. “The Lady of Powwydd compliments you on the quality of the food we enjoy here, Emrys. However, she has a delicate digestion and requires certain herbs and spices be added to the food to alleviate her distress.”

  Emrys looked at his new mistress and grinned. “Why didn’t she say so?”

  Rhys again resisted the urge to smile. “Your lady is still learning our language, Emrys. Be patient. You are grieving for my parents, but they welcomed my wife with love and affection before they died.”

  Emrys bowed. “I will indeed make sure my lady is provided with all she needs if she will but show me what she requires.”

  Rhys turned to his wife. “Cook says he is always willing to try new ideas. You have but to show him.”

  Annalise smiled at him, then at Cook. The scullery maids exhaled. Rhys left the kitchen holding his wife’s hand firmly, sure it wouldn’t be the last time he’d have to intervene in domestic squabbles.

  ***

  Annalise left the foodhouse with a heavy heart. She suspected Rhys had used his skills to calm the argument she’d somehow started with Cook. How was she to communicate with these people? She felt isolated, alone. Rhys wouldn’t always be there to help her. She would have to learn their language. Rhonwen would be hard to live up to. It was obvious everyone grieved for their mistress.

  Rhys put his arm around her shoulder. “What’s wrong, Annalise?”

  She stopped abruptly and buried her face in her hands, not wanting him to see her tears. “They will never come to respect me. They hate me. I wish I’d never left Normandie.”

  Rhys drew her to him and rested his chin on the top of her head. The aroma of venison from the kitchen clung to him. It mingled with his usual healthy, masculine scent that she was coming to know, and filled her senses. “They don’t hate you,” he soothed. “They are grieving for my parents. Change is hard. They will come to love you.”

  But will you, Rhys?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Travel within Wales was difficult, given the rugged terrain, the lack of roads and the remoteness of many villages. For Carys to travel back and forth from Ellesmere to the family llys in Wales was an arduous journey, though not a great distance. Rhys wanted to lessen his new bride’s feeling of isolation and Baudoin was concerned for Carys when she travelled. Gradually over many months of discussion the two men formulated a plan to improve travel in the Marches, both firm in the belief that better roads would lead to increased prosperity.

  They had little information available, but charted areas which might need the most improvement. They planned to undertake a fact-finding expedition to verify their thoughts. To facilitate their meetings, Rhys and Annalise came to stay at Ellesmere Castle, and Rhys was grateful to his sister and brother-by-marriage for giving his wife the opportunity to get to know them, and for the respite from the isolation of Wales.

  He and Annalise were abed one evening, shortly after their arrival, and Rhys sensed his wife’s nervousness. She had been unwell on the journey and looked pale. He cupped her breasts in his hands and grazed his thumbs over the pebbled nipples. She groaned, but tears welled in her eyes. He sat up and pulled her to his chest. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  She took a deep breath. “I spoke with Carys today. I haven’t been feeling well.”

  His heart lurched. He had known this woman such a short time, and yet she had become an essential part of his life. “What did she say?”

  Annalise hesitated, clutching the linens. “She says I am with child.”

  Something he couldn’t describe hit him in the gut and spread its heat all the way to his toes and back up his spine, before it settled in his heart. He was to be a father. His seed had taken root inside this beautiful woman he was married to. He couldn’t speak. His breath caught in his throat.

  His wife tensed beside him, staring at the linens. “You are not pleased?”

  He put his hands on her shoulders and held her away. “Not pleased? Annalise, I am euphoric.”

  He rose from the bed and pulled her to her feet. They stood skin to skin, breast to chest. Then he knelt before her, smoothed his hands over her belly and kissed her there. “Thank you, Annalise. Thank you for this precious gift.”

  “You’re welcome, Rhys.”

  He loved the way she pronounced his name, the R deep in the back of her throat, the long drawn out eee, the soft sss and the indefinable little emphasis at the end, as if his name had another letter. He put his cheek to her belly and his arms around her waist. She rested her warm hands on his shoulders. They swayed together for a long while before he looked up at her and said, “There is only one problem.”

  Her eyes widened and he regretted the worry on her face. He smiled and explained, “This means I will have to share the suckling.”

  The reappearance of her smile spread warmth through him again as she tousled his hair. “Méchant,” she scolded.

  He frowned. “Can I still be naughty now you’re with child?”

  She smiled. “Carys says it is permitted.”

  He rose fro
m his knees, took her hand and led her back to bed.

  ***

  Carys too was with child, her third, and the two women were good and supportive company for each other. Annalise told Rhys she was reassured by Carys’s calm explanations about childbirth. Gallien Rambaud de Montbryce had been born in the year of our Lord One Thousand One Hundred and Two. When he was two years old, Carys and Baudoin welcomed their second son, Etienne Robert.

  Carys had assisted as a healer at many birthings and had inherited her mother’s mystical aura in her abilities to heal. She brought no fear to her experience of giving birth. She had confided to Rhys she was secretly hoping for a girl, having more than fulfilled the obligation to provide Baudoin with an heir. Baudoin doted on his sons.

  Rhys was proud of his previous moderation with women, often going many months without bedding anyone. Now he found he constantly craved his beautiful wife. “It’s amazing the effect a magnificent pair of breasts can have on a man’s urges,” he confided to Baudoin one day. His brother-by-marriage nodded and laughed good naturedly.

  I’m suddenly a rutting stallion. Imagine after she bears our child.

  Rhys hardened whenever he conjured the image of his wife’s swollen breasts. It occasionally occurred to him his attraction to Annalise might be something more than simple lust, but he pushed the idea away. He was glad they were friends. He enjoyed their conversations, sharing with her the plans for the road improvements, and for their home at Powwydd. In friendship lay contentment and comfort.

  Annalise struggled with Welsh, but her English improved rapidly and that was the language they used most often. Rhys relished the occasions when she responded to his patient teaching and was able to speak a few words in his language. He particularly liked doing this when they were abed together and he taught her words of intimacy in Welsh.

  He wanted her to understand him when he told her in his own language how lovely she was, how enthralled he was by her bountiful breasts and how fulfilled he felt when he was inside her. It warmed his heart when she smiled in understanding as he whispered these words to her. She asked him to teach her how to tell him that she loved to feel his manhood inside her. When she repeated his words in her halting Welsh it inflamed his already rampant need. Why was he disappointed she didn’t ask how to say, “I love you.”?