by Tracey Warr
‘No. I don’t want to take my clothes off in here. There are fleas, lice.’
Owain laughed. ‘Fleas! That’s the worst you’ve ever encountered, is it? Keep your clothes on then.’
He pulled me down to sit on the bed, and kicked off his trews, retaining his shirt. He blew out the candle, pushed me back and lifted my skirts, preparing to get on top of me.
‘No,’ I struggled to push him from me.
‘Keep still. I can’t see what I’m doing in this pitch black. Stop aping the virgin.’
He slapped me lightly across the face.
‘No!’ I cried in a louder voice, wrestling with him.
‘Christ!’ He stuffed a wad of material into my mouth, his hood I guessed, and repositioned me with one hand, pinning down my wrists with another. He entered between my legs, forcing himself in, thrusting into me, crying out, careless that the old woman and man laying on the hard benches next doors, could doubtless hear him.
The following day we rode further up into the mountains of Snowdonia. I kept telling myself that I must think, must find a way but my mind refused to function. I could not think past the mere phrase: I must think. It was early spring and our path was frequently blocked by herds of sheep and goats and lowing cattle being driven up to the mountain pastures, coming from their winter stalls. Pigs, too, were being chased from their muddy sties in the villages and released into the woods to happily snuffle through the summer. The herdsmen and shepherd boys were leaving their winter homes in the valleys – the hendrefs – and moving up to their summer houses on the hillsides – the hafods. A great wave of goats and sheep crested the cliffs above the villages, making music with their bells, accompanied by the shouts of the herdsmen. In village streets, we had to stand aside and wait patiently as the herds moved up before we could continue our own journey, in their wake.
We rode into cloud and I felt the shifts in humidity on my skin. Turbulent streams rushed downhill and the sound of water was everywhere. The harsh sunshine cleansed the grubbiness I felt. Nevertheless, when I saw the blue-green of a high, small lake I asked Owain to stop and let me wash.
‘It will be freezing!’
‘Just for a moment. I need to wash my face and hands.’
He handed me down from the horse. At the edge of the lake, I dipped my handkerchief into the frigid, clear water and wiped my face and the back of my neck. Glancing behind me, I saw that nobody was looking in my direction. Owain was talking with two of the men. I lifted the front of my skirt and ran the cold cloth over my thighs and between my legs and dropped my skirts back down into position. Crouching, I cupped a mouthful of water. I looked out across the lake to the snowcapped mountain beyond and began to weep. I dipped the cloth in the water again, wrung it and spread it across my face, weeping into the wet cloth that was draped over my hands. I wept silently, my shoulders shaking. After a while I took the cloth from my face and stood up, smoothing down my skirts, and turned back to the waiting men and horses.
Owain hoisted me into the saddle, oblivious to my state. We continued on. I knew it was useless to question him in front of his men. I would have to wait until we were alone again, but there was no opportunity for several days or nights as we bedded down in abandoned barns, surrounded by the men. Owain held me with my back against his body and entered me from behind silently each night. I felt ashamed, like a cow tethered for the bull.
Eventually, we reached a village high in the mountains, where the men, women and children came out to watch our arrival. I heard the excited buzz passed from mouth to mouth. ‘It’s the Princess of Deheubarth.’ ‘The Prince of Powys has stolen the Princess from the Norman bastards.’ Small boys ran alongside and ahead of us, repeating the news. The villagers pointed at me, and I heard murmurs of appreciation at my looks from both the women and the men.
‘I need a head veil,’ I said to Owain, who was riding in front of me. I felt exposed to the gawping and comments of the villagers.
He shrugged his shoulders and he called back to me, without turning in the saddle, ‘I don’t seem to have one of those about my person.’ The two men to either side of him laughed appreciatively.
A young woman in the crowd, seeing and overhearing our exchange, stepped to the side of my horse, tugging at her own head veil. She handed it up to me and our hands and eyes briefly touched in sympathy. She stepped back, and pulled her rough, brown shawl up over her head.
I was shown to a comfortable house where a maid waited on me. Owain came to find me. ‘Come, Nest. The villagers are holding a fire festival to greet Calan Mai.’
He led me to a great barn, where trestles were laid out with food and warmed drinks. The villagers were all gathering here with a great sense of excitement. A woman was lifted onto a trestle and sang. She had a pure, clear voice that raised the hairs on the back of my neck and brought tears to my eyes. She sang of loss. After a few minutes, some of the elders in the village began to join her song, in voices cracked with age, labour and emotion, and eventually the song swelled to include everyone there, including myself, in a great paean of loss and grief. We sang for Wales, and the song turned to defiance. All faces, including my own, ran with tears.
A small fire burnt at one end of the barn with a high pile of unlit torches before it. Many small children crowded together before the torches. An old woman – the oldest in the village, Owain told me – took the first torch from the pile and lit it, and then each of the children did the same, some of the littlest helped by their parents and looking rather afraid of their burdens. I thought, with pain, of my own small children and hoped ardently that they were safe now with Gerald. These village youngsters formed up a procession behind the old woman and walked out of the barn towards the centre of the village where a huge bonfire had been built. It was higher than the houses.
The old woman led the procession of children, with their flaming torches, through an opening at the foot of the bonfire, into the heart of the heap itself to set it alight. Then she hustled them all out swiftly, retreating from the curls of smoke. Everyone stood around the pyre waiting for the fire to catch. It was bad luck if it did not catch on the first attempt, and fuel at this time of year was hard to keep dry. We heard the fire before we saw it, a muffled rumbling from deep inside the pyre, then small licks of flame that ran swiftly, seeking each other, seeking the air, fanned by the wind, and then roaring bright up the whole great pyre.
The people bellowed with the conflagration and it warmed us and lit our faces and the inky black night surrounding us. Drums beat and whistles blew, voices were raised in song and people danced wildly, faster and faster around the flames. I flew in a dance, arm in arm with Owain, exhilarated. Might I be reborn with the May Eve? Could I leave behind my years with the Normans and become Welsh again, my Norman time cauterised from me?
Exhausted after a while, I shook my head as Owain continued his whirling. I drew away from the dancing, a hand pressed to my side. I watched the embers running up into the sky and longed for my Norman husband, my Norman children, and for Amelina, and I knew that the little Welsh girl I had once been was gone. I could not find her in me anymore. I could not renounce my life with Gerald, which was my dear life now.
We stayed in the village for several months, but I could not discover its name from the circumspect inhabitants. They treated me with courtesy and kindness, but if I asked questions, they shook their heads and smiled apologetically. Everybody was loyal to Owain, or feared him. Some time into our stay, a party of Welsh warriors rode in, and at the meal in the hall Owain introduced me to their leader, his cousin, Madog ap Rhiryd.
‘You’re buggered, Owain,’ Madog told him.
Owain laughed uneasily. ‘Never that.’
‘King Henry has put your uncle on your throne of Powys.’
Owain spluttered on his wine. ‘What!’
‘It’s true. You’ve really angered King Henry, boy!’
‘Henry’s in Normandy.’
‘And you think that stops him? That’s
too far for his reach? His instrument, Bishop Richard de Belmeis, has his orders. He released Iorwerth from prison and he’s given him Powys. King Henry’s new Normans at the castle at Cardigan – de Clares – they are hunting for you. You’ll not be able to stay here. I’ll help you all I can, but your father’s powerless now.’
I noticed a certain relish to Madog’s tone and wondered if Owain realised that Madog had ambitions for the Powys throne himself.
Owain frowned. ‘My father is never powerless. He’ll be cooking something. And so am I.’
‘Oh aye?’ said Madog sceptically.
The next morning, I woke nauseated, threw the blankets from me, rushed to an empty chamber pot in the corner of the room and spewed into it. ‘What is it?’ Owain called from the bed. ‘Are you ill?’
‘No, I am with child. Your child.’
‘Really?’ he beamed at me and I felt a wave of depression. ‘Let’s call him Llewelyn,’ he said.
‘I have to stay here,’ I told him. ‘I can’t keep on with hard riding in the mountains in my condition.’
‘We can’t stay still.’ He frowned. ‘I’ll think of something.’
Owain’s thinking of something came to nothing. Despite my condition we were soon on the road again.
‘What is your plan?’ I asked him.
‘Don’t worry your head about it.’
I bit back an angry retort. King Henry had seen fit to worry my head about his business, and so too had Gerald, but Owain told me nothing.
We passed through several mountain villages, never staying more than three nights anywhere. We were moving back from the highlands of Powys, towards Ceredigion. We arrived at a village where a group of riders in Cadwgan’s livery stood waiting for us. Owain scowled like a boy who had been caught red-handed stealing apples. Cadwgan’s men entered a hall with us where a maid fussed around, making me comfortable at the fire. The men glanced at my swelling stomach. They sat some way off, talking with Owain. I decided I had had enough of being kept in the dark and edged my stool nearer so that I was within earshot.
‘If her husband had died in the raid on Cenarth Bychan,’ Morgan, the leader of Cadwgan’s men, was saying, ‘you could have married the lady, but –’
‘You think I would marry her anyway,’ Owain interrupted, in an astonished voice. ‘A Norman whore? First the whore of one Norman – king or no, and then another.’
My hands stilled above the embroidery in my lap and I kept my eyes upon it but knew the men had turned to look in my direction.
‘Hush, Prince,’ Morgan said in an astonished tone. ‘The lady hears you.’
The whole thing had been an assault on Gerald, against the Normans, and never a desire to rescue me, to have a royal Welsh bride, to ally with Deheubarth. I had suspected as much, but I had not really allowed myself to fully believe it until I heard him speak it. I stood up, flung the embroidery from me, swung my stool to the trestle where they sat, placed myself opposite Owain.
‘What is it?’ Owain’s voice and face expressed irritation.
‘Continue,’ I commanded Morgan, fixing my eyes on Owain.
After a brief pause, Morgan continued to speak, addressing Owain. ‘Your father has surrendered to King Henry and he has been deprived of all his lands. Your uncle Iorwerth rules in Powys.’
Owain scowled, looking at the table. ‘Well, what am I to do about it?’
‘Your father counsels you to hand the Lady Nest to us and we will convey her to her husband, then he suggests you seek refuge from the King’s fury in Ireland. He believes, given time, King Henry will relent and pardon you and your father and the lands will be restored.’
Owain looked up. ‘Hand her back in that condition!’
Morgan glanced embarrassed at me, his face flushing a blotched red. ‘It makes no difference,’ he said. ‘These are your father’s commands.’
‘Very well,’ Owain muttered in a low voice.
Morgan stared at Owain for a few moments and then turned to me. ‘We will ride out at first light tomorrow, lady. Will you ready yourself?’
I nodded, not looking at Owain.
‘We can go at a slow pace,’ Morgan told me. ‘Or would you prefer to travel in a carriage, my lady?’ He was relentlessly courteous to me, making me feel the stab of Owain’s words all the more. A Norman whore.
‘I can ride, slowly,’ I said. The thought of being jolted in a carriage on these treacherous mountain paths was not appealing.
I retired to my chamber early and sat, staring into the fire. It would take a few weeks perhaps to progress slowly back to Pembroke, to Gerald. And what would my position be there? As a married woman who had slept with another man, I would be judged complicitious whether I was willing or not, whether I had been coerced to it for the sake of my children’s lives or not. I had heard of some married women judged to be fornicators who had been buried alive but most courts were more lenient and simply imposed a fine. Such things were seen as the woman’s fault, unless she was a virgin. The most likely outcome of any legal proceeding was that I would have to pay a fine for allowing Owain to have carnal knowledge of me. And how would Gerald react? I could not bear to think of it. He would take me back. The King would insist on it, probably. It was the best that could be done to save face for all of them. As if there were not shadows enough between Gerald and I from our past, now we would have to try to cope with this.
I did not want to return to Gerald in this condition. Perhaps I could persuade Morgan to leave me at Carew and ride on to fetch Amelina to me. He seemed a considerate man. Then I could birth the baby and return to Gerald after that. I could not give up the child that kicked against the hand I pressed to my side. Gerald would have to accept another cuckoo in his nest. But it would be easier for him to accept me if I did not arrive with a belly full of another man’s whelp, if I did not birth that child in his earshot.
13
Helen of Wales
Satisfied with my plan to birth Owain’s child at Carew and then return to Gerald, I decided to get some sleep before the long journey with Cadwgan’s men in the morning. I took off my dress and climbed naked into the bed. Despite the cold season, I was hot at night and found it difficult to sleep with the growing mound of my belly in the way, whichever position I took.
Nevertheless, I must have slept, because I woke to pitch blackness in the room and an awareness of Owain swearing at having stubbed his foot against a table. ‘Dammit! Nest are you awake?’ he hissed.
‘Yes.’ I was groggy.
‘Quick, get up. I can’t strike a light. You’ll have to fumble about and find your shoes.’
‘But …. What?’
‘Shut up. Just do it,’ he hissed. He had reached the bed now and pulled me from the covers. ‘You naked hussy,’ he said, pausing briefly to stroke my swollen breasts and stomach. I batted his cold hands away from me. ‘Here.’ He found my nightgown and pulled it over my head, pushing it down over my swollen body to swing against my calves.
‘But Owain …’
‘Later,’ he said. He pulled me by the arm towards the door.
Outside, there was a little light coming from a torch at the end of the passageway. He bent and slipped my feet into my boots, which he had found in the dark and carried out under his arm. He pulled the fur cloak about my shoulders, tying the thongs together. It had long ago lost Gerald’s scent.
Slowly, after my bewilderment of waking in the dark, I realised what was happening. ‘No, no.’
He stared in my face. ‘Keep quiet, Nest,’ he threatened.
‘Morg …’ I started to shout but Owain thrust a hand roughly over my face, slipped the scarf from his neck and tied it tightly around my mouth, gagging me. It tasted of smoke and sweat. He pulled me out into the bailey where two horses stood, held by his man.
‘Are you sure you will go alone, Prince?’ the man asked, hoisting me into the saddle.
‘Yes, it’s best. I don’t want my father punishing you for my decisions.’
; It is too late for that delicacy, I thought. Cadwgan would doubtless hold all his men accountable for aiding Owain’s attack on Cenarth Bychan, and for their support of their prince on the run with me in the mountains. Owain grasped my horse’s bridle and led us to the gate.
The man ran to open the gates for us, they squeaked in the darkness, and then we were out and across the drawbridge. I looked over my shoulder but the hall was dark and silent and no alarm was raised to halt our departure.
When we were some distance from the keep, Owain pulled the scarf from my mouth. I spat on the ground and he passed me a water bladder. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘If I’d allowed you to shout, there would have been bloodshed.’
‘I can’t ride fast, Owain,’ I croaked.
‘I know, I know.’
Despite his reassurance Owain led us at a hard pace along a narrow path through the forest, and then we were descending. I knew better by now than to ask him anything. He never did me the courtesy of explaining his purpose to me. We rode for days, and I was exhausted. ‘Owain, I will lose this child if we continue like this.’
‘I have no choice. What would you have me do, surrender like a coward and be executed by your King Henry?’
Surely fleeing like this, against the command of his father, was the action of a coward? I remembered the courtesy of Duke Robert withdrawing from warfare against Henry because Queen Matilda was suffering with a difficult pregnancy nearby. The Duke was languishing in a prison now. I wondered where Henry was at this moment. Did he think of me? What would he think if he saw me riding fast, my big belly full of Owain’s baby. I blinked. My hands on the reins were clenched so hard I could hardly flex them.
We came at last to a small village that looked out across the broad expanse of Ceredigion Bay. Owain left me in the charge of a family loyal to him. They watched me closely, like jailors, and I could barely gain a moment alone. There was no hope of sending a message to anyone, but who would I send it to in any case? What could I say? When Owain returned, some weeks later, his cousin Madog and many soldiers were with him, and they herded a small pitiful group of men, women and children chained together. ‘What is this?’ I asked the woman standing beside me.
