The Welshman's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  “Why?”

  Genevieve’s imperious tone brought a wary look to Angharad’s eyes, and she was glad to see it. This woman had best remember to whom she spoke. Genevieve was no peasant, but a highborn lady who was married to this woman’s lord.

  Unfortunately, the wary look didn’t last beyond a moment. “Wanting to see Dylan’s wife, is all.”

  “Since you have seen me, you may go. You may leave, too, Llannulid.”

  With a sniff, Angharad turned on her heel and marched toward the door. Llannulid and Gwethalyn trotted after her.

  Angharad was about to pull open the door when it suddenly burst open.

  “Mair!” Angharad chided as another young woman entered—or, it seemed, danced—into the hall.

  Shaking her head, Angharad continued outside, still followed by Llannulid and Gwethalyn, who gave the stranger a brief, but friendly, greeting.

  Mair. She had heard that before. Was it a word——or a name?

  Suddenly Genevieve remembered. This was Arthur’s mother.

  Genevieve clasped her hands together and prayed for patience as Mair pranced closer. She was pretty in a common sort of way, with thick, curling brown hair and freckles scattered across her nose.

  Was there no type or form of woman that did not have some appeal for Dylan DeLanyea? Genevieve wondered crossly.

  Mair came to a halt and surveyed Genevieve with a matter-of-fact curiosity that was only slightly easier to bear than Angharad’s hostility, Llannulid’s sympathy and Gwethalyn’s awe.

  “So, you are the Lady Genevieve,” she announced cheerfully.

  “I am.”

  “I am Mair, Arthur’s mother. He told me you were pretty and I must say, you are.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mair laughed merrily, the sound like the trill of a bird after a long and silent winter. “Angharad was her most Angharad-y, I think. I hope she didn’t upset you too much.”

  Genevieve drew herself up proudly. “She did not upset me at all.”

  “Really? You are some woman, then. Angharad can be cold as ice, her, and about as cheery as an early frost,” she went on with a broad smile. “She likes to lord it over the rest of us because she gave Dylan his first son.”

  “You gave him his second.”

  “Well, he says so. I have my doubts.”

  Genevieve was too dumbfounded to respond, and Mair laughed again. “Anwyl, I told him it could just as easily be Morvyrn’s, or Lloyd’s, or possibly Tewdwer’s. But he insists Arthur is his, and if a baron wants to take the credit for my son, who am I to say no?”

  Genevieve had heard tales of great storms at sea, with roaring winds and huge waves. She felt rather as if she were in one as Mair looked around the hall.

  “I told him he should get married. Glad I am he finally took my advice.”

  “Your advice?”

  Mair grinned. “Mine and about a hundred other people’s, I suppose.”

  She dropped onto one of the benches and patted the wood beside her for Genevieve to join her, as if this would be the most natural thing in the world.

  “It’s almost time for the evening meal,” Genevieve prevaricated.

  It was possible for Mair to frown.

  “Oh,” she said, putting her hands on her knees as a prelude to rising.

  Reconsidering, Genevieve quickly gestured for her to stay seated. “There is a little while yet. I don’t even know where Dylan is at the moment.” “At the ffridd, him.”

  “The freeth?” Genevieve repeated, trying to pronounce the word properly.

  “Aye. A pen for the sheep, that is. They’re making sure it’s ready for the gathering.”

  “Oh.”

  Mair gave her a friendly smile. “A bit much, is it?”

  Genevieve nodded.

  “That’s what happens when you marry so fast.”

  Genevieve gave her a wary, sidelong look, wondering what she knew.

  “We’ve all got to get used to it, I suppose. Him just off to visit his uncle for a celebration, he says, and he comes back in a week with a wife.”

  She gave Genevieve an approving smile. “That’s why I think you must be quite a woman ”

  Genevieve flushed hotly. “He charmed me right from the first.”

  “Of course he did. That’s what Dylan DeLanyea does.”

  “You don’t seem to mind.”

  Mair’s laugh filled the hall, and Genevieve saw Cait peering from the kitchen corridor.

  “Tell the servants we shall prepare for the evening meal in a little while,” Genevieve ordered. “I’ll call you from the kitchen when it’s time.”

  Cait nodded and disappeared.

  “I thought she’d be next, myself,” Mair mused aloud.

  She glanced at Genevieve. “No need to look like that. Cait’s a grown woman, and if she didn’t want to, that would be the end of it. Chivalrous is Dylan, and no mistake.”

  “He didn’t tell me about you or the others.”

  Mair’s brow furrowed with puzzlement. “Why not?”

  “You’ll have to ask him that question.”

  “I will,” she replied in a tone that made it very clear that she would.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t,” Genevieve replied, suddenly doubtful.

  “Oh, I can ask him. He’ll probably say we slipped his mind, but I won’t believe it for a second. He probably thought you wouldn’t marry him if you knew, being a Norman.”

  “He would have been right.”

  “There, then!”

  “You cannot say you think he was right to keep his children a secret.”

  Mair shook her head. “No, not right, exactly, but it’s understandable if he wanted you enough to marry you and thought you would refuse because of them. He must be mad in love with you.”

  Genevieve flushed, then gave Mair another sidelong glance. “Was he mad in love with you?”

  “Not a bit. Nor me with him, and neither one of us ever claimed otherwise.”

  Mair regarded her with steadfast frankness. “Angharad acts like a queen because she was his first, but she knew he would never marry her. She’s not a noble, for one thing. For another, he was too young to decide when he went with her. Me, I had both eyes open, and there’s never been a more attractive man, to my thinking, so I suggested we become lovers.”

  “You suggested?”

  “Why not? He was willing, so was I. That’s enough.”

  “But you had other lovers?”

  “Oh, anwyl, yes! I like men.”

  “Obviously” was on the tip of Genevieve’s tongue, but she refrained from saying it.

  Mair grew serious. “Llannulid was a little different. You’ve noticed she speaks your tongue very well?”

  “So do you,” Genevieve replied.

  “Do you think so?” Mair cried happily.

  Then she returned to her graver manner. “Not as well as Llannulid, though. She was raised by the Normans, in the south. Dylan went to visit an earl there and brought her back with him. Eight months later, Gwethalyn was born. By then, Liannulid wasn’t with him anymore. Dylan had got her a little house in the village.”

  “She was recently married to the steward?”

  Mair laughed. “Aye, to Thomas-y-Tenau—Skinny Thomas, that is.”

  Genevieve smiled. “He is rather thin.”

  “Thin?” Mair guffawed. “I’m always afraid a good stiff breeze will take him straight to heaven.”

  “What is his real name?”

  “Skinny Thomas.”

  “No, I mean his Christian name.”

  “Thomas. We have to add something, or we might get him mixed up with Thomas the smith, or Thomas the shepherd from over the hill.”

  “Oh.”

  Suddenly Mair jumped up as if she had spied a snake on the floor by her foot. -

  “Anwyl. here they come, and me not got the ale off the cart,” she cried.

  Genevieve could hear the sounds of men talking and laughing outside, too, and likewi
se rose in dismay, albeit with less energy. She had talked too long. The tables were not even set up!

  Mair smiled again, and there was genuine sincerity in her frank brown eyes. “I wish you every happiness. Just be a little patient with him, and with us, and we’ll try to be patient with you. Remember, he’s had lovers, but it’s you he married—and remind Angharad of that if you have to!”

  With that, Mair danced toward the entrance just as a gaggle of men entered, Dylan at their head.

  He had been a long time outside. His hair was ruffled from the breeze, and his face ruddy.

  He paused when he saw Genevieve, a little smile on his face.

  How lovely she looked, this wife of his, with her fluffy blond curls and blue eyes. She stood in his hall like a queen, a worthy wife for a baron, a fitting chatelaine for his castle, one that any Norman would envy.

  Then, with a start, he realized boisterous, bold Mair was there.

  She came toward him, a knowing smile on her face as she punched him on the arm.

  “Keeping secrets from her, you were,” Mair chided merrily in Welsh. “No wonder she looks as dazed as a mole in sunlight And here I was thinking it was just your prowess that overwhelmed her.”

  “Greetings, Mair,” Dylan replied, trying not to sound annoyed. “I wondered if that was your cart in my courtyard.”

  “Aye, and I had best see to the unloading.”

  Her gaze momentarily followed his men as they wandered into the hall. “Your men look like they’re barely alive. Must have been quite a celebration—and you didn’t invite me.”

  “I forgot.”

  She laughed without bitterness. “I’ll say you did, but I can see why. A beauty she is, for a Norman. Proud like a Norman, too.”

  “I think we’ll be needing that ale.”

  “Right enough. All your barrels will be empty now, I’m sure. Good day to you, then, my lord, and best wishes on your marriage.”

  She went to go past him, and he started toward Genevieve.

  Mair hesitated a moment beside him.

  “Angharad was by to say hello,” she whispered.

  Chapter Ten

  Dylan was relieved to notice that Genevieve seemed too busy with the details of setting up the tables to pay much heed to him, and he swiftly hurried toward their bedchamber. He would wash and dress in a clean tunic before returning to the hall.

  Thus refreshed, he would surely feel more up to the task of talking about Angharad. And Mair. And Llannulid.

  Once in the bedchamber, he drew off his tunic and splashed cold water over his face and shoulders. At least the ffridd needed no repair, and they could begin gathering the sheep tomorrow. All those on the mountain could be brought down, and those about to have lambs separated from the rest of the flock. The winter had not been a harsh one, so he could be optimistic about a healthy and growing herd.

  He heard the door open and raised his head, squinting to see as the water ran over his eyes. “Genevieve?”

  “Yes.”

  He reached for a square of linen and dried off his face, taking his time about it.

  “I came to apologize,” she said in a small voice.

  He threw down the linen and faced her. To his surprise, she looked quite upset. “What for?”

  “I did not have the hall prepared and now you will have to wait to eat. Forgive me.”

  He grinned. “Is that all? I assure you, I can wait a while.”

  The tension ebbed from her shoulders. “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  He frowned with mock consternation. “Just make sure such a terrible thing never happens again.”

  She didn’t smile and he went to her, taking her hands in his and regarding her tenderly. “It is not so serious, Genevieve. I am not used to having my food ready the moment I come into the hall.”

  She didn’t look particularly mollified. “That doesn’t mean I should have been so remiss.”

  “There is no need to chastise yourself, either. This is but your first day here. I have remembered that, if you have not.”

  “I wanted everything to be properly done,” she mumbled.

  He put his knuckle under her chin and made her look up at him. “Is this a pout I am seeing?”

  She shrugged.

  “It is a pout, and I know of one good way to get rid of it,” he whispered, bending to kiss her.

  His arms tightened about her as he gave himself up to the enjoyment of tasting her lips and slipping his tongue into the enfolding warmth of her mouth.

  All too soon, however, she pulled away. “We should go down. They will be waiting for us.”

  “Let them wait,” he murmured, tugging her close again.

  This time, she turned her head away.

  “Genevieve, they can wait.”

  “But that is not—”

  “What Normans do?”

  “Very well. It is not what proper Normans do.”

  “I am not a proper Normart.”

  “I...I know that.”

  He regarded her suspiciously. “Is it Angharad and Mair? Did they upset you?”

  She turned away and walked toward the window. “You can’t expect that I wouldn’t find them rather... disconcerting.”

  “Angharad especially, eh?” he said warily. “She can be... difficult.”

  Genevieve glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Yet you must have cared for her once.”

  “And I like her still. She is the mother of my firstborn son, too, so I am bound to respect her.”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you like me to speak to her?”

  “No. I must learn to deal with...all this... myself.”

  In truth, he was rather relieved to hear that. “What did Mair say to you? She’s got a tongue on her, that one, but no guile at all.”

  “Yes, I agree.”

  “Genevieve, look at me.”

  Reluctantly, she obeyed, and he saw something in her eyes that made him speak gently, and sincerely. “I know it is not going to be easy for you for the first while. And I know I have given you much to endure, in your mind, at least. Let us be patient with each other.”

  “That is what Mair said.”

  “She can be quite wise, when she’s not being impertinent.”

  He went to Genevieve and put his hands on her shoulders, regarding her steadily. “I want us to be happy, and I think we can be, if we let the past be the past and look to the future. Our future.”

  She smiled tentatively. “I will try.”

  “Good. Now of course we cannot keep people waiting, so we had best go down.”

  “I trust you intend to put a tunic on?” she asked, and he was delighted to see the spark of mischief in her eyes.

  “Maybe not. Sometimes the Welsh eat halfnaked.”

  Her eyes widened and his laugh echoed off the walls. “Not savages, the Welsh. Only teasing I was.”

  “I hoped you were.”

  “It’s true you are getting to know me better,” he said as he went to a chest to get a new tunic.

  “Soon I will know everything about you.”

  He looked at her and smiled that slow, seductive smile. “And I will know everything about you.”

  She went toward him, drawn by an irresistible urge.

  “Perhaps,” she said in a whisper made hoarse by desire, “perhaps they can wait below for a little while, if we are swift.”

  He laughed softly and tugged her into his arms.

  Genevieve had never suspected a man could be that swift.

  Then again, she knew very little of men in general, and was only slowly learning about her amazing husband.

  Seated at the high table, she sighed contentedly, although her contentment lasted only a moment before she began to scrutinize the servants to ensure that they were performing their tasks as she expected of them.

  In general, they were. Some of the women could have moved more smartly—and they might have, if Dylan and the other men didn’t seem to feel it ne
cessary to speak to them so often, and in such flirtatious tones.

  Especially Dylan, who at this very instant was waylaying Cait with some sort of Welsh nonsense, to judge by his bantering tone.

  He had not said one word about how she had arranged the tables in a much more orderly fashion that made the serving easier and faster, or noted how the food arrived in proper order.

  “Do you require something of her, my lord?” Genevieve asked.

  He barely gave his wife a glance. “No. Just asking after her family. Her father’s an expert at lambing and I wanted to make sure he would be able to come if we need him.”

  “Oh.” Genevieve took a bite of the coarse bread and tried to chew it without opening her mouth, something not particularly easy.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The bread—I am going to have to take bites the size of a pea.”

  His brow furrowed as he looked at her. “You like it, don’t you?”

  “It’s tasty enough, just coarse.”

  “I see.”

  “Do all your men flirt with the serving women all the time?”

  “They’re not flirting. They’re talking. Not standing on rank, us—and I like it that way.”

  Genevieve could not ignore his tone of finality, or the annoyed look in his eyes as he looked at her. “I suppose you think I was flirting with Cait?”

  She blushed hotly and stared down at the bread.

  He smiled. “God’s holy heart, woman, I will have to become a mute to keep you from being jealous, I think.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance, mindful of his words that he intended to abide by his marriage vows, and suddenly ashamed of her jealous heart. “I’m trying not to be.”

  “Good.”

  “Tomorrow, I would like to rearrange the storerooms.”

  “Fine. Do as you will with the household. It’s yours to command.”

  “I thought I should try to get some finer flour.”

  “If you like.”

  “Can we afford French wine?”

  “I think so. Ask Thomas.”

  “I would like to take a count of the linen.”

  Dylan turned to his wife, who sat so upright and rigid at the table, as stiff-backed as any Norman noble he had ever encountered, and quite different from the woman he had so recently made love to. Surely she could not still be doubting his intention to be faithful to her. “Do whatever you see fit. You are the chatelaine here. I have confidence in your abilities.”