The Welshman's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  “But you are the master. I should have your permission.”

  He grinned. “Master, eh? I like that. So you must do whatever I say?”

  She lowered her eyes demurely and blushed prettily. “Yes.”

  “Well, well, well, I shall have to see what I can think of.”

  She raised her eyes and looked at him. “That also means I cannot make decisions without your approval.”

  Dylan waved his hand dismissively. “Perhaps that is what Lady Katherine taught you, but we shall not have such strictness here. You can do what you like—within reason, of course.”

  “But how will I know what you consider ‘within reason’?”

  She had him there, and he had to admit it. “Very well, Genevieve. For the first little while, I suppose you will have to consult with me.”

  “Good.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “What else is troubling you?”

  “Nothing, my lord,” she replied, and yet he didn’t quite believe her.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Nothing important.”

  Before he could press her further, Thomas rose from his place. “If you please, my lord, we were so ashamed this morning at your criticism, we want to sing now for you and your lovely bride.”

  Dylan smiled happily. “By all means, if you can sing something more pleasant than that cats’ howling I heard before.”

  The men grumbled in protest, until Thomas held up his hand. “Now then, boys, none of that. We’ll prove him wrong with our song.”

  “What’s happening?” Genevieve asked.

  “My men are going to sing to us.”

  “But the meal’s not finished.”

  “No matter.”

  He thought she made a derisive sound, but when he looked at her, he couldn’t really read her expression.

  Then he told himself if she was a little put out, that was all right. He wanted to hear the song his men were going to sing, for he was quite certain they had made it up today as a retaliation for his insult.

  To his vast amusement, he learned he was quite right, and that he had underestimated their capacity for bawdy lyrics. He was suddenly glad Genevieve couldn’t understand a word of Welsh, or her proper Norman sensibilities would have been horrified.

  Not that he had a lot of sympathy for her proper Norman sensibilities; he just didn’t want her upset any more. To be honest, he had underestimated how difficult it might be for her to be comfortable at Beaufort, and he did want her to be comfortable, and happy.

  But she would have to get over this insistence on rules and schedules. That was not his way, and never would be. He wanted his people to be happy and carefree in a way they had not been under his father and his grandfather. He would not be some sort of petty tyrant, so he never insisted on strict times and ways of doing things. As long as the work was done, that was all that mattered.

  When their song was concluded, with a rousing chorus that described Dylan’s manhood in the most exaggerated and colorful terms possible, Dylan shoved back his chair.

  “Where are you going? We have not had the fruit!” Genevieve protested.

  “I’m not leaving. I am responding,” he explained.

  Using the same tune and repeating some of the words, he proceeded to sing his own song, referring to a particularly enthusiastic ram instead of himself. The men laughed and clapped, and by the time he was finished, Dylan was rather pleased with himself.

  He flopped down into his chair and grinned broadly.

  “What was that about?” Genevieve asked somewhat dubiously.

  “A ram,” he answered innocently enough.

  “You could have been a wandering entertainer performing for your supper.”

  “Do you think so?” he asked, delighted, until he got a look at her censorious face.

  “If you will excuse me, I believe I shall retire,” she said, rising haughtily.

  His good humor ruined, he sarcastically said, “We haven’t had the fruit yet.”

  “I don’t want any. Good night.”

  With that, she swept out of the hall, and every person there knew she was angry.

  Dylan put a wry smile on his face. “She’s a Norman.”

  Everyone chuckled, and soon enough, they were all singing about love and honor.

  While up in her bedchamber, feeling that all her efforts were unappreciated, all her desire to be a good wife not important to him, and all the people below barely civilized, Genevieve sat and stared out the window at the moon.

  “Genevieve?” Dylan whispered as he crept into their bed later that night” Are you awake?”

  Her back to him, she didn’t answer.

  “Genevieve, are you awake?” he repeated, stroking her arm.

  “What do you want?” she demanded softly—and angrily, pulling the coverings around herself tightly so that he couldn’t caress her anymore.

  “I knew you were awake.”

  “I’m trying to sleep.”

  “I’m trying to apologize.”

  She rolled over and looked at him. “You are?”

  “It was just a jesting song, Genevieve. There was no need for you to get so upset.”

  “Your behavior was hardly dignified.”

  “Do you want to hear it?”

  Of all the things he might have said, she had not expected this. “I wouldn’t understand the words.”

  “I can translate as I sing,” he offered with a cunning smile that was very hard to resist.

  In fact, it was irresistible. “Very well.”

  Dylan obediently began to sing, censuring some of the more lewd portions, just to be safe.

  After a moment, Genevieve started to smile, and once or twice, she giggled—a very delightful sound in the darkness of their bedchamber.

  “Was that anything so very terrible?” he asked when he was finished.

  “No—but I don’t think that was an exact translation.”

  “My lady!”

  “My husband!” she cried, mimicking his feigned dismay.

  “Well, some things do not translate exactly,” he explained somewhat truthfully.

  “I know, and I fear you are even more vain than I thought, to make up a song like that about yourself and your...body.”

  “It’s not about me.”

  She laughed skeptically, then snuggled closer to him. “You do have a lovely voice, you know.”

  “Then I shall sing you another song, shall I?”

  “Like that?”

  “No,” he whispered softly. “A song for lovers.”

  And when he finished singing the beautiful song in his fine, rich voice, they made a different kind of music.

  Genevieve awoke the next morning in the dim light of early dawn and realized Dylan was already up and moving about their bedchamber. “What are you doing?”

  He gave her a smile as he continued to dress. “It is a fine morning to gather the sheep.”

  “Mair said you would be doing that.”

  “Did she now? Well, a long day it will be, so do not look for us to be finished before the sun sets.”

  “You, too?” she asked, surprised, for she had assumed that whatever the task, he would only supervise.

  “Of course. I take the highest place in the line. Have for years.”

  Although she wasn’t sure what he was talking about, she heard the pride in his voice, and knew that the “highest place in the line” was important to him. “What line?” she asked, shifting into a sitting position so she could see him better.

  He sat on the end of the bed to put on his boots. “We make a line up the mountain, the men and the dogs, and then we swing down toward the ffridd, gathering the sheep as we go.”

  “Oh.” It didn’t sound like a proper job for a baron, but he seemed to think it was, so she would be silent.

  “What will you do all day?” he asked, twisting to look at her.

  “I told you last night. The storerooms are completely disorganized. I shall have them
sorted out, washed and arranged properly.”

  He nodded. “Ah, yes. You will need Llannulid, then. I’ll tell Thomas.”

  Genevieve hugged her knees as she regarded his broad back. “She speaks French very well. Mair told me a little bit about her.”

  Again, Dylan looked at her over his shoulder. “What did Mair tell you?”

  “That you brought Llannulid back with you after you visited a Norman nobleman, she had Gwethalyn eight months later, but by then you had given Llannulid her own house in the village.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes.”

  He rose and came to sit beside her, taking her hand in his. “I am going to tell you this because I trust you, Genevieve, but you are not to tell another soul. Will you promise to keep this confidence, since it is Llannulid’s more than mine?”

  Confused and rather dismayed by the seriousness of his tone, Genevieve nodded her agreement.

  “Good.” He sighed softly. “Gwethalyn is not my child.”

  “Not yours? Then why—”

  He put his finger gently to her lips. “I never actually claimed her as mine. I simply never said she was not, and if people assume that she is, I let them.”

  “In the woods you told me all three children were yours.”

  “I confess I was annoyed with you then, so I was a little less than honest, but in a way, I think of her as mine, even if she is not the child of my body. I went to visit a Norman nobleman, Pierre de Grieuxville, who had recently been granted a castle and estate in the March. I was supposed to get a measure of the man—and that did not take long. He hated the Welsh with a passion, except when he loved them against their will. That beast raped Llannulid.”

  There was a look of such animosity on Dylan’s normally cheerful face that she could almost pity the man who engendered it.

  Genevieve thought of gentle Liannulid. She knew how wonderfully intimate love could be; she could scarcely imagine that intimacy turned to violence and degradation. Tears of sympathy filled her eyes and she grasped his hand tightly.

  “She came to me in the night and begged me to help her,” Dylan continued grimly. “I was all for killing him, myself, but she feared his men would go on a vengeful rampage.

  “So I brought her away with me and told my uncle about Pierre.”

  A wry smile came to his face. “De Grieuxville probably never would have believed that he could be ousted by a single letter from a Welsh baron.”

  “But he was.”

  “Oh, aye, within a month he was removed from the estate and sent packing back to France.”

  “Meanwhile, Llannulid was here.”

  “Yes, in this bedchamber and supposedly as my lover, but I never touched her.”

  “Does her husband know the truth?”

  “I expect so.”

  “Dylan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you forgive me for ever thinking you a completely selfish rascal?”

  He reached out to caress her cheek. “In some things, I am selfish.”

  She turned her head to kiss the palm of his hand. “I can hardly wait to bear your child.”

  “Nothing would make me happier, Genevieve,” he whispered as he brushed back her curls with his other hand. “Unfortunately, this morning I cannot linger, or we won’t finish before dark.”

  “Go to your duties and leave me to do mine,” she said with a smile. “I will have your meal ready when you return.”

  He nodded, gave her another smile and left the room, while she sighed and snuggled back under the covers for a little while, to envision how happy they both would be the day she gave him a son. Or even a daughter.

  Griffydd DeLanyea, who was known for the inscrutability of his countenance, was nevertheless making no secret of his feelings as he rode toward Beaufort with his father that morning.

  Some ways behind, among the other men, was Trystan, and it was of him that Griffydd spoke. “I do not think it was wise to let him come.”

  The baron regarded his eldest son coolly. “Why? He has helped with the gathering other years when he was home.”

  “That was different.”

  “Why?”

  “Surely I don’t have to say it.”

  “I think you do.”

  “That was before Dylan was married to Genevieve Perronet. You saw the way Trystan looked at her.”

  “Yes, I did. But as he is my son, and a knight, I have faith that he will remember she is married to another and bring no dishonor to our family.”

  “I trust you are right.”

  “Do you think keeping him from her will cool his ardor?”

  “It might.”

  The baron shook his head. “I am not so certain. Let him see her as Dylan’s wife, happy in her own home, loving her husband.”

  “You seem confident that they will love each other.”

  The baron gave his son a rueful smile. “Whether they’re willing to admit it or not, they were half in love before they were married, or neither one of them would have agreed. Knowing Dylan, I daresay they’ve smoothed over the rough spots.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “And I wish you’d stop seeing problems everywhere. Trystan is young. He will get over this infatuation soon enough, provided she is not kept from him like some kind of forbidden fruit.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I know it,” the baron said with a confident smile.

  Which, unfortunately, was not entirely sincere.

  Chapter Eleven

  Later that day, as the sun set behind the hills, Genevieve waited expectantly for Dylan and his men to return.

  For possibly the hundredth time she surveyed the hall, making certain all was prepared. The tables were freshly washed and the high table sported a fine linen cloth she had discovered at the very back of a shelf in one of the dustier storerooms. She had also discovered three saltcellars that now sat ready to be used, and to divide the tables closest to the dais. She would have to ask Dylan who deserved to sit above the salt. Thomas, she was fairly sure, but other than that, she could hardly begin to guess.

  The maidservants stood in the kitchen corridor ready to bring the bread and butter the moment she nodded her head.

  Stifling a yawn, Genevieve wondered how much longer the men would be. She had had a very busy day sorting out the disarray, and that had only been two storerooms, albeit the ones she considered the worst. Tomorrow, she would have to begin on another.

  Then she would have to learn about the castle laundry.

  She grimaced as the twinge of a cramp assailed her. Usually that was a warning that her menses was about to begin. Today, she hoped it meant something else.

  Finally hearing some commotion in the courtyard that she thought heralded the men’s return, she adjusted her cap and veil, then smoothed down her skirt. Tonight she wore a gown of red wool with a simple leather girdle. Her cap was likewise red, her veil white. She knew the garments suited her, and she wanted very much to look pretty for Dylan.

  She discerned his merry voice among the others and her heart started to beat with both happiness and anticipation, for surely he would notice her improvements in the hall tonight.

  At last he entered, and she smiled brightly, admiring him anew—until she realized his uncle and cousins were with him.

  He had not told her to expect such important guests! How could he have been so remiss? They would surely have to stay the night, for it was too late to return to Craig Fawr.

  A hundred thoughts, all in Lady Katherine’s admonishing tones, seemed to shout in her head at once as she waited for them to approach. Where would they sleep? Did she have enough clean linen? Was the food going to be fine enough? Did they have sufficient wine?

  And overpowering them all was the firm conviction that Dylan should have told her of their impending arrival, so she could be properly prepared and not have to experience this sudden panic.

  “Greetings, my lord,” Genevieve said, coming forward, a vision o
f loveliness.

  Despite her smiling countenance, however, Dy-lan knew his wife well enough by now to recognize the annoyance in her eyes.

  Because they were late? He had forewarned her of that.

  Perhaps Angharad had been for another visit. Later, when he was alone with Genevieve, he would ask her what had upset her, and if Angharad was the reason, he would speak with Trefor’s mother, no matter whether Genevieve wanted him to or not.

  For now, and despite his utter exhaustion, he smiled brightly, determined to do his best to cheer her.

  Then he realized she was looking not at him, but at the baron.

  “A delight to see you again, my lady,” the baron said in his own charming way.

  She looked at his cousins. “Welcome to our hall.”

  Then, finally, she gave her husband a sicklysweet smile before addressing the baron again. “I hope you will forgive us any lack, but I was not informed of your visit.”

  So, there it was. She was annoyed that he hadn’t told her of the baron’s arrival, as if his uncle would expect to be treated like visiting royalty.

  “Not standing on such formalities, us,” the baron replied. “We came to help with the gathering because the weather was good. If it were not, we would not.”

  “Will you join us at the high table?”

  “There seems to be plenty of room,” the baron observed with a chuckle, “so of course we will.”

  “Now, we are all weary, so let us sit and eat,” Dylan declared, striding forward and taking Genevieve firmly by the elbow.

  He steered her toward the high table.

  “No need to be in a fuss,” he hissed. “These are my relatives, not the king.”

  “You should have told me they might be coming. I don’t know where they will sleep.”

  “In the hall, like they always do.”

  “As if they were common soldiers?”

  “Aye, or old friends and not spoiled, arrogant Normans.”

  By now, they had reached the dais. Genevieve forcefully pulled away from his grasp. “Your uncle must have the chair. I will sit beside the baron on the bench, you on his other side, and your cousins will be on either side of us.”