Bertrice Small - A Moment in Time

Wynne put her hand over her mouth to keep herself from shrieking as her younger sisters traipsed from the hall. If marrying the lord of St. Bride's meant getting free of Caitlin and Dilys, then perhaps it was not such a bad bargain she was making. Little Mair, wide-eyed, was unable to refrain from giggling as she eyed her eldest sibling, and Wynne, her hand dropping away from her mouth, grinned at the child, ruffling her hair affectionately. "They make me so angry," she said.

"They are very mean," Mair noted. "I know I should love them, but I do not." She glanced half fearfully at Father Drew. "Will God send me to burn in Hell's fires for that, Father? I know it is sin not to love Caitlin and Dilys, but I just can't!"

The priest swallowed hard, his own feelings warring with his conscience. "It is wrong to hate, Mair," he told her, "but I do not think God will condemn you to damnation because you do not like your sisters, Caitlin and Dilys. Our lord understands feelings like that." He patted the child's head reassuringly and then muttered softly beneath his breath, "Besides, it would take a saint to love those two."

"Time for bed, Mair," Enid said, rising from her place, her voice quavering with her need to laugh, for she had overheard the priest's remark. Taking her little granddaughter's hand, she led her from the hall.

"Are other priests as human as you are, Father Drew?" Wynne asked him. She too had overheard, and her eyes were dancing with merriment.

The priest's own brown eyes twinkled back at her. "It has been so long since I've been with other priests, Wynne, I cannot remember," he said honestly. "My world is Gwernach, and I am its only priest. My many years in the monastery were spent in study, preparing myself for the priesthood that I might return one day to Gwernach and, in serving my God, serve it and its people as well. My memories of that time are no longer clear. I can but recall two things. Study and prayer."

"No friends?"

"One," the priest said slowly. "Like myself, destined to eventually return to his family's lands to care for the spiritual well-being of his people. What was his name? Aelfric, I think. He was a Saxon from somewhere near Winchester."

"And what do you remember about him?" Wynne inquired.

Father Drew's brow furrowed a moment as he thought, and then he smiled. "I remember, my dear, that Aelfric loved to laugh, and even our harsh life in the monastery could not change that in him. We were both called home at the same time. I have not seen him since."

"You rarely speak of yourself," Wynne said, "and yet I find your tales interesting when you do."

"It is not my duty as a priest, Wynne, to speak of myself. Besides, what is there to say about Drew ap Daffyd? I am the only child of your father's youngest uncle, who is long deceased. You know that."

"I think there is more to you than you would admit," Wynne teased him, and then she sobered. "I am doing the right thing in marrying Rhys, aren't I?"

"Your grandmother and I will keep your brother safe, Wynne, never fear. I realize that is your greatest concern in this matter. Rhys of St. Bride's will get a better wife than he undoubtedly deserves, but he will not get Gwernach, I promise you," Father Drew told her. Then he chuckled. "And we will be rid of Caitlin and Dilys too!"

Wynne smiled at him, but then as she looked to the windows she frowned. "The moon should long be up, Father, but the overcast is still thick and it does not break through. Poor Dewi! I pray he is safe."

"Go to bed, my child," the cleric advised her. "You cannot help Dewi with all your concern. If the lad does not return home first thing in the morning, then I will lead the search party myself. We will leave at first light."

"I will not sleep a wink!" Wynne vowed, but she was tired. Her day in the forest as well as the strain she had been under these last few weeks were taking their toll now that she had finally reached her decision. She made her usual rounds, checking to be certain that all was secure for the night, and then she climbed the stairs to the family solar. Softly she tiptoed across the floor to her own bed. Caitlin and Dilys shared a bed, and their snores from behind the drawn curtains were loud. Wynne smiled to herself thinking how horrified they would be to be told that they snored.

Mair slept on the trundle of their grandmother's bed. Wynne smiled down at the youngest of them, her little cheeks flushed with her good health, the tendrils of soft brown hair curling about her face, the little thumb that was half in, half out of Mair's tiny rosebud mouth. Then turning away, she began to undress, carefully folding her under tunic and tunic dress away in her chest; drawing out the garments she would wear on the morrow and laying them out neatly over the chest. Sitting down upon her bed, she drew off her soft boots and set them aside. Reaching for her brush which was beneath her pillow, she slowly brushed her long, dark black hair free of its one thick braid. Then with a sigh she drew the bed curtains shut and slipped beneath the coverlet.

For some time she lay awake, her mind a jumble of mixed thoughts that would not be silenced. Then firmly, but not without difficulty, she pushed her thoughts away, clearing her head of everything but her prayers. As they came to an end, Wynne found herself slipping into a relaxed sleep. Dewi would be all right. Her initial panic over, she allowed her instincts to guide her and she felt no threat to her little brother. Indeed, she sensed now that he was quite safe. And not alone.

Wynne sat up, suddenly fully awake. Why had she thought that? Yanking the curtains open, she discovered that the dawn was already beginning to lighten the edges of the sky beyond the windows. It was near to morning, and she had obviously been sleeping for several hours, although it did not feel as if she had. What had awakened her? She could not remember, and lay very still listening for the sound that had surely stirred her to consciousness; but everything was quite still. Caitlin, Dilys, and her grandmother were all snoring now. Mair continued to sleep peacefully on her trundle bed. There was no sound from the hall below. Even the birds had not yet begun their early song.

It was obvious that she was not going to go back to sleep, and so Wynne arose quietly, shivering in the cool air, for she wore only her sheer, soft linen chemise. She walked across the solar to a small stone alcove that held an earthenware basin and a pitcher of water. In the winter the water often froze overnight, but in late spring it was simply icy cold. Pouring some of the contents of the pitcher into the basin, she washed her face and hands, and scrubbed her teeth with a piece of rough cloth, dipping the cloth in a mixture of pumice and mint she kept for the purpose. Rinsing both her mouth and the cloth, she opened the small window in the alcove and threw the dirty water away. The day looked to be fair, though there was a mist right now.

Moving back to the trunk at the foot of her bed, she began to dress. First an under tunic of indigo-blue with long, close-fitting sleeves that fell to her ankles, and then a shorter knee-length overtunic of bright green with long sleeves embroidered in pretty bands of gold thread on the wide cuffs which ended at her narrow wrists. It was her best gown, and Wynne girded the overtunic with a belt of gilded leather with a silver-gilt buckle set with a particularly fine piece of crystal that had just the faintest blush to it. Opening her trunk, she took out a pair of soft leather shoes made to follow the shape of her narrow foot. Today she would do Rhys of St. Bride's honor by looking her best when he came for the answer she knew she must give him.

Digging deeper into the trunk, Wynne drew forth a small carved box and, opening it, removed a pair of pear-shaped crystal earrings which she affixed in her ears. Sitting herself upon her bed, she brushed the tangles from her hair and carefully braided it into the single, thick braid she favored, tying the end with a small piece of green ribbon. It was custom that young girls wore their hair loose and flowing, restrained only by a ribbon band until marriage; but Wynne had taken to braiding her hair in an effort to appear older when she found herself responsible for her family and having to do business with strangers. She was proud of her thick, long hair which, when loosened from its woven confinement, blossomed about her like a night cloud. It was, she was certain, her best feature; and she was relieved that the unpleasant custom of cutting one's hair short immediately after a first marriage to show servitude to the bridegroom had finally been discontinued. Cut her beautiful tresses? Never!