"Be merciful, sister. " Rhiannon had not spoken aloud, and yet Angharad heard her.
"I might have had they shown you any mercy," the queen of the Fair Folk responded in kind.
"There were some
who were thoughtful of me in my
distress," Rhiannon
replied.
"I know them, and they shall not
feel my wrath, " Angharad said, and turning away from her elder sister, she
spoke aloud. Her words were deliberate and carefully chosen. Upon those who had
aided Rhiannon she disbursed blessings and un-equaled good fortune that would
descend down through their families for a thousand generations to come. To
those who had calculatingly and purposefully planned deleterious and ruinous
hurt to Rhiannon, the queen of the Fair Folk laid upon them a curse of terrible
proportions. The silence in the Great Hall of Dyfed as she spoke was so thick
it was almost visible.
Then Angharad glared
at her brother-in-law, who sat upon his seat of office, his head within his
hands. Fiercely she willed him to look up at her, and when he did, she spoke
again. The anger was gone from her voice now. Only a deep sadness remained.
"Pwyll of
Dyfed," she began. "When you came to wed with my sister, Rhiannon
asked but two things of you. That you give her your complete love and your
complete trust. This was all she demanded of you in exchange for the great
sacrifices she made in order to become your wife. You have betrayed Rhiannon
on both accounts. You could not trust her in the face of your people's
condemnation of her because she was not of the Cymri, and therefore her
credence was to be doubted; but even that the Fair Folk might forgive you had
you remained true in your heart to her. You have not, Pwyll of Dyfed. Your love
for Rhiannon has wavered as surely as your faith in her has wavered. Even
knowing the great concessions my sister made for you, you left her helpless,
unable to defend herself and caught between two worlds. For this, Pwyll of
Dyfed, you will be punished."
Then Angharad, Queen
of the Fair Folk, pronounced Pwyll's fate; a fate so severe it left all within
the hall breathless and in awe of its subtlety. It was a harsh judgment. As the
full meaning of it penetrated Pwyll's brain, his eyes widened with horror, even
knowing as he resisted his punishment that he fully deserved it.
Then, before the
astonished eyes of the assembled court of Dyfed, the hall began to fill with a
silvery smoke. There was another monstrous thunderclap which immediately
cleared the haze, revealing to all that Angharad and Rhiannon were no longer
amongst them. Bronwyn of the White Breast whimpered, finally fearful, and
piteously clutched at Pwyll's arm. Furiously he shook her off, and opening his
mouth, he cried after his wife.
"Rhiannon!
Rhiannon! Rhi-an-non!"
There was no answer,
and as Pwyll's voice echoed and died within the Great Hall of Dyfed, a deep,
sad silence descended upon all there.
PART 1
WYNNE OF GWERNACH
WALES, 1060
Chapter
1
Wynne of Gwernach stared down at her father's grave. A month had passed since Owain ap Llywelyn had met
his death in a freak accident. The grass was already beginning to grow and
thicken upon the burial mound which would soon look like her mother's grave. As
if it had been there for a hundred centuries. As if there was nothing beneath
the mound at all but the earth itself. She felt a tear begin to slide down her
cheek and impatiently brushed it away. She had not cried at her father's
demise. Tears were for weaklings, and she could not be weak like other women.
Other women did not have the responsibility of a large, productive estate that
must be kept safe for its boy heir. Other women did not have the liability for
the safety of that little brother or three sisters.
"Father,"
Wynne said aloud. " 'Tis a hard task you have left me," and then she
sighed deeply.
Owain ap Llywelyn had
been a tall, handsome man in the prime of his life. Although he held one of the
richest estates in all of Morgannwg, there was none who begrudged him it, even
the king, Gruffydd ap Llywelyn, his distant cousin. In warlike Wales
he was regarded as a man of peace, although Owain ap Llywelyn had been known to
pick up his sword when the occasion merited it. Still, he preferred his lands
and his cattle; his wife and his family, above all else; and he would do nought
to jeopardize those things.
For his entire life
Owain ap Llywelyn had been considered fortunate in all things. At the age of
twenty-two he had taken to wife a girl considered the greatest beauty in all of
Wales; Margiad, called the
Pearl. She had given him four daughters and a son before dying in
childbirth; but even so, Owain ap Llywelyn was still thought to be a lucky man.
His children were all healthy, and he could certainly marry again. He was
considered a prime catch; but Owain did not remarry. He had loved his wife
greatly, and mourned her loss deeply. Those who knew Owain ap Llywelyn best
noticed that he did not laugh quite as easily, or as frequently after Margiad's
death. He named the daughter she had died birthing Mair, which meant sorrow
in the ancient Cymri
language. He loved the baby no less than he had loved her siblings, for he was
not a cruel man, but he was never again the same man; the man that he had been
before Margiad the Pearl's
death. Now he drove himself relentlessly, as if seeking to escape the reality
of his widowhood.
Never an overly
prideful man, he thought nothing of picking up a scythe and working in the
fields with his serfs and his slaves. Indeed, on the day that Owain ap Llywelyn
had died, he had suddenly decided to help in the rethatching of his barn. The
spring rains would be upon them, and the winter had taken its toll of that
vital structure's roof. A load of thatch upon his broad shoulder, he had lost
his footing and fallen from the roof into a pile of hay below. A pitchfork,
left carelessly in the hay, had pierced Owain ap Llywelyn's heart, killing him
instantly.
The heir to Gwernach
was ten years old and, although technically the estate was his, he was much too
young to manage it. That task had fallen to his eldest sister, Wynne, who was
fifteen, there being no male kin available. Fortunately the orphans of Gwernach
had their paternal grandmother, Enid, to look after the management of the
household, leaving Wynne free to oversee her little brother's large
inheritance. There were other things that needed settling, though, and Wynne
feared she was not capable of doing these things.
As the lord of
Gwernach, her little brother was a valuable marital catch; but Wynne was not
certain it was wise to betroth Dewi ap Owain to a wife until he was
considerably older. It was not unusual for boys of ten to be married; but the
truth of the matter was that should Dewi not survive his childhood, a child
wife's family could place a claim on the rich lands of Gwernach in the widow's
name. Then what would happen to the rest of them? Standing by her father's
grave, Wynne frowned, for she knew the answer to her question. She, her
sisters, and their grandmother would find themselves displaced and penniless.
It was all so complicated. Husbands had to be found for Caitlin, Dilys, and
Mair. How was she to go about that? She didn't even have a husband herself.
Caw!
Caw!
Wynne turned at the
sound of the harsh voice and the noisy flapping of the wings that accompanied
it. A great black raven stood eyeing her from a nearby tree. He cocked his head
almost as if to ask what the problem was that kept her here on this bleak
hilltop in a rough wind that smelt most distinctly of rain. A small smile
touched Wynne's lips. The raven was an old friend. He seemed ageless, having
been about her whole life. Her father had always teased her that the bird must
certainly be the oldest living raven, for ravens, he said, were not particularly
long-lived; but Wynne knew that this bird now looking at her was the same bird
she had always known.
"Hello,
Dhu!" she called, feeling strangely comforted by his presence. "I've
no bread on me to share with you today. Sorry."
The bird looked
aggrieved at her words and made a small crackling sound in the back of his throat.
"Ohh," Wynne
said gently, "I've hurt your feelings, haven't I? You didn't come for
bread at all, but to comfort me, old Dhu. Well, my problems are surely bigger
than yours today." Then she laughed softly. "And wouldn't the world think
me mad or a witch to be talking to a raven? And yet we're old friends, aren't
we?"
The raven appeared to
bob his head.
Wynne chuckled,
amused. "Well, I'd best be off, old Dhu. I'll not solve my difficulties
standing here chattering to you. Take care of yourself and don't steal too much
seed when we plant next week." Then she was off down the hill from the
grave site, while behind her the raven continued to watch her, perched
comfortably on his tree; but then as the first drop of rain began, the bird
flew off, grumbling, to seek shelter.
Wynne pulled her
woolen shawl up over her head as she hurried down the hill. Spring rains could
be treacherously deceptive, and she didn't need a chill. At least the house
would be warm. It was strange, but despite its proximity to the river, it was
always comfortable. As a child she had wondered about the ancestor who had
built their house upon a promontory overlooking the river. As she grew in
wisdom she understood that by doing so the house was only vulnerable on one
side; and that side was surrounded by a thick stone wall allowing entry only
through heavy ironbound oak gates which were closed and barred at sunset and in
times of danger.
Within those walls
were the estate's main dwelling; main barn; blacksmith's forge; cook house;
stables, kennels, dovecote; well; and kitchen gardens. The house, which was
constructed of both stone and timber, had a thatched roof with several smoke
holes for the fire pits which indicated that it was a wealthy man's home.
Inside, the main floor consisted of a hall that extended almost the entire
length of the building and soared two stories high. Above the portion of the
hall that was single-storied was a second floor consisting of a solar and a
single small chamber which had been Owain ap Llywelyn's private sleeping place
for himself and his wife. This, in itself, was unique, for generally the lord
and his family slept in the same room, curtains drawn about each bed being the
only privacy available.
Wynne dashed through
the gates of her home as the skies opened in earnest, gaining the house with a
gusty sigh of relief. She shook the droplets from the heavy fabric of her
shawl, rendering it almost fully dry, and wrapping it about herself, moved into
the hall. The two fire pits were both blazing merrily, and as usual, the place
was snug and dry. Her green eyes skimmed over the room, taking in her
grandmother, Enid, as she instructed the servants bringing in the evening meal;
to her brother, Dewi, who was happily rolling about in the rushes with the
latest litter of puppies and their baby sister, Mair; to her next two sisters,
Caitlin and Dilys, who sat idly gossiping as usual. Seeing her entry, Dilys
jumped up and ran to her elder sister.
"Where were you?" she whined. "We were afraid! We've had word Irish
slavers are raiding our coast again. What if you had been taken? What would
happen to us?" Her pretty mouth had a petulant cast to it.
Caitlin joined them
and said in superior tones, "She was at the grave again, weren't you,
Wynne? Why you go there is beyond me. There is nothing there. Father is long
gone; but Dilys is right. The Irish are raiding. It would behoove you to be
more prudent in your wanderings."
"Thank you for
your concern, dear sister," Wynne said dryly, "and how do you know about the
Irish? There's nought to fear from them. We are too far from the coast for the
Irish to bother with us."
"A messenger
came!" Dilys burst out. "While you were gone!"
"Was I gone so
far that you could not have sent for me?" Wynne answered sharply. "I
was, after all, in sight of the house. I saw no rider."
"You saw no rider
because you were probably daydreaming again," Caitlin replied. "The
rider came, and he departed as quickly, for he was ordered by his master to
return immediately. Rhys of St. Bride's needs every man he has until the
danger is over, I would think."
"Rhys of St.
Bride's sent to us to tell of Irish slavers?" Wynne was puzzled. "
'Twas kind of him, but quite unnecessary, I believe."
"No! No!"
Dilys giggled inanely, dancing about her eldest sister, her golden-brown
braids swinging madly.
"Be silent, you
silly wretch!" Caitlin ordered her sibling. "I will tell Wynne the
message." She turned to her elder. "Rhys of St. Bride's would come to
visit us. He would speak to you on a matter of some importance," Caitlin
said loftily, "which can only mean he wants to marry you! I told the
messenger to tell his master that you would be pleased and honored to receive
him at his convenience. If you wed Rhys of St. Bride's, then we will be able to
find rich husbands too! What an opportunity for us all! Are you not pleased,
Wynne?"
Wynne, however, looked
at first astounded by her sister's news and then disturbed. "No," she
finally said, choosing her words carefully. "No, I am not pleased at all
by the prospect of being courted by Rhys of St. Bride's. I shall have to refuse
him should he ask, and refusing him while keeping his friendship will not be
an easy thing, Caitlin."
"Refuse him? Why would you refuse him?" Caitlin shrieked. "You
will ruin us all, you selfish creature, before you are through!"
Wynne sighed.
"Caitlin, think a moment. Why would a powerful warlord with a great castle
want me to wife? Oh, my dowry is good, but our name is not great. Rhys of St.
Bride's can have both in a wife, so why would he want me?"
"Who cares why he
wants you?" Caitlin said petulantly. "Don't you understand anything,
Wynne? With Rhys for a brother-in-law, and our comfortable dowries, we shall
have our pick of good husbands. Besides, we are related to the king."
"Our connection
to Gruffydd ap Llywelyn is so slender as to be almost invisible," Wynne
said matter-of-factly. "If Rhys of St. Bride's is to come courting me, it
is because of our brother."
"What has Dewi
got to do with it?" Dilys asked, her pretty forehead wrinkling with her puzzlement.
"Our brother is
young. Should anything happen to him before he is grown, wed, and a father,
Gwernach would be mine. We are fortunate we have no close male relations else
they threaten Dewi for his inheritance. You can be certain that that is what is
in the back of Rhys of St. Bride's mind as he comes courting me. Dewi's
possible demise. I should not put it past him to hurry our brother into the
next life that he might gain Gwernach through me. The line of descent in the
matter of Gwernach is quite clear. It is first through the male line to the
third degree, and then through the female line beginning with the eldest
daughter. Rhys of St. Bride's has never even seen me. I might be bald and
snaggle-toothed, but he would have me to have Gwernach."
"You're
mad!" Caitlin said, but she could not look at her sister as she spoke.
"Nay," their
grandmother said, joining them and entering into the conversation. "She's
probably right, and yet I do not feel we should judge Rhys of St. Bride's
harshly until we have heard him out. Perhaps his offer will be a genuine one.
Wynne is a practical girl. She clearly sees her main attraction for a powerful
lord is the fact that, though Dewi is Gwernach's lord, she is Gwernach's
heiress until Dewi has fathered a son of his own. Still, my girl," Enid
said, putting a comforting arm about her eldest grandchild, "Caitlin did
the correct thing when she told the messenger that you will receive the lord of
St. Bride's."
"Let us hope the
Irish keep him busy for several months," Wynne muttered. "The last
thing I need about Gwernach right now is a suitor. The corn and the hay must be
planted if I am to feed the cattle next winter. It is hard enough, as you well
know, to wrest grain from this soil."
"Four more cows
calved today," Dewi said coming up to his sisters. "Old Blodwen had
twins again, and one of them is a wee bull, Wynne."
She smiled down at
him, pulling the straw from his. black hair and ruffling it affectionately.
"A wee bull," she repeated. "Well, if he's half the stud his sire
is, he'll prove valuable to us."
Dewi grinned, pleased,
but Caitlin glowered darkly.
"Cows and
bulls!" she said irritably. "Is that all you can think about,
Wynne?"
"One of us must
think about such things if this estate is to survive—if
your dowry is to survive—until
I can marry you and Dilys off," Wynne told her.
"My dowry is my dowry," Caitlin said firmly.
"Your
dowry," her sister replied, "is part of this estate, and Gwernach
comes first."
"And there's another
reason that you should marry Rhys of St. Bride's if he asks you," Caitlin
insisted stubbornly. "No woman is competent to manage an estate. I don't
even understand why you won't do it. Better you wed and let Rhys handle
Gwernach before you lose everything for us!"
"Wynne doesn't
have to marry anyone she doesn't want to, you selfish cow!" Dewi told his
older sister, his blue eyes flashing at Caitlin in his defense of Wynne. "I
am lord of Gwernach, and I have spoken!"
"Lord of
Gwernach! Lord of Gwernach!" mocked Dilys, for she and Caitlin were close.
"You're nought but a little runt!"
"I'm as big as
you are," Dewi replied spiritedly, reaching out to yank at one of Dilys's
long braids and grinning with satisfaction at her shriek of pain.
Caitlin smacked at her
brother in an effort to defend Dilys, but he eluded her hard hand and aimed a
well-placed kick at her shin. Caitlin howled
