Bertrice Small - A Memory of Love

Rhonwyn had been turned from a rough-speaking half-lad into a beautiful young woman. Her cropped hair had grown out. It was parted in the center and hung down her back, contained by a simple silver ribbon. Her bosom seemed larger, which was to his mind all to the good. Men liked a woman with plump breasts. She no longer walked with determined strides, but rather glided gracefully. The hands that had held a sword were now perfumed and soft, and the long fingers that bad so skillfully drawn her bow now plucked at the strings of the mandora in her lap while she sang softly The English could have no complaints about his daughter.

"You have worked a miracle, Gwynllian," he told the abbess.

"Yes," she agreed with a small, arch smile. "She is more than well worth the price you have paid for her transformation. However, brother, I must be honest with you. Were Rhonwyn not an intelligent girl, none of this would have been possible. And you should show the men of Cythraul some appreciation, for they are the ones who taught her honor and duty."

"While turning her into a rough, foul-mouthed soldier," he grumbled at his sister. "And that cost me a fortune to reverse. I am tempted to burn Cythraul down about their ears!"

"This is not someone else's fault, Llywelyn," the abbess said sternly to her brother. "This mishap was your failing. You know it, and you know why. Put it behind you, and tomorrow take your daughter to England to her husband. Remember, however, this time you travel with a lady, and not a laddie." Then the abbess chuckled at her own small play on words.

The morning of April second came, and Rhonwyn's baggage was loaded into a sturdy cart. She bid the sisters farewell, taking special time to thank those nuns who had given her all the knowledge she now possessed, particularly Sister Rhan and the abbess.

"Remember, my child, that you will always have a home and a refuge here at Mercy Abbey," Gwynllian told her. "May God bless you with happiness and many children."

"Not too many," Rhonwyn teased her aunt. "But I do promise to save at least one girl for you, my lady abbess."

With a chuckle, the abbess hugged her niece, kissing her on the cheek. "Godspeed, Rhonwyn uerch Llywelyn," she said.

Mounted upon Hardd, Rhonwyn rode through the abbey gates by her father's side. She heard the portals close behind her, but she was not sad. She was free from the constrictions of the nuns at last and off on a new adventure. They had turned her into a mannerly lady, but they had not tamed her spirit nor dimmed her enthusiasm for life. She had spent these past months in earnest study so she could be worthy of her father's name and her new position. Now she must turn her mind to Edward de Beaulieu, the man who was to be her husband. She couldn't even begin to imagine what he would be like, but over the next few days of their journey she tried.

“The messenger has arrived from Prince Llywelyn, my lord," the servant said, bowing to his master.

"Bring him into the hall" came the reply.

"Yes, my lord." The servant bowed again, and backed away some feet before turning about. He returned only moments later. "The messenger from Prince Llywelyn, my lord."

Edward de Beaulieu glanced briefly at the rugged Welshman.

"My master and the lady Rhonwyn will be here by nightfall, my lord," he said. Then he fell silent.

"I await them" was the brief answer.

Cold bastard, the messenger thought as he bowed to the lord of Haven Castle and departed the place to ride back to ap Gruffydd with the reply.

Edward de Beaulieu watched him go, and then absently took the silver goblet of wine his servant offered him, staring into the dancing red gold flames in the fireplace. He wasn't ready to marry, yet he would shortly have a wife. A wild Welsh girl half his age. But having no betrothal agreement with another and being located so conveniently near the border, the king had chosen him to be his sacrificial lamb in this treaty marriage. He had considered refusing, but Prince Edward had stared hard at him when the king announced his decision, and Edward de Beaulieu had known he dared not refuse. The prince was an enemy he was not interested in having.

When the Welsh prince had asked the marriage be delayed until this spring because his daughter was completing her education at Mercy Abbey, Edward de Beaulieu had been pleased to acquiesce. He had an attractive mistress and was in no hurry to wed. When he thought of it, though, a convent-bred wife did have her advantages. She would be meek and obedient, keeping his home in excellent condition and bearing his children. Haven had known no lady since his mother had died seven years ago. While he had enjoyed the company of his mistress, Renee de Faubourg, these past months, he had pensioned her off several weeks ago, with her own house in Shrewsbury and an annual allowance he placed with a reputable goldsmith. A wife was to be respected, and if the truth be known, he was beginning to tire of Renee.

He wondered what the Welsh girl would be like. She would probably be small, for so many of the Welsh were. And she would have dark hair and eyes and a fair skin. He wondered if she spoke the Norman tongue or if she was conversant only in Welsh. It probably didn't matter a great deal as no words were really needed when a man took a woman to his bed. She would eventually learn, of course, if she was to control the servants.

Still, he couldn't help but feel annoyed at having been forced to this marriage. But the girl had had no choice either, and was not to be blamed. Hopefully they would like one another and could come to an arrangement that would guarantee peace between them. He was uncomfortable, however, having Llywelyn ap Gruffydd as a father-in-law. The prince was a dangerous man and extremely ambitious. Haven would be caught between him and Prince Edward, who liked not the Welshman one bit, for ap Gruffydd had supported the prince's uncle, Simon de Montfort, quite openly against the king. Prince Edward might not have a great deal of respect for his sire's style of governance, but he did love his father.

de Beaulieu arose and left the great hall, going to the south tower where his bride's apartments would be located. The young serving girl his steward had chosen to serve the bride turned startled eyes on him as he entered the dayroom. She curtsied quickly, keeping her frightened eyes lowered. He looked about the room. The furnishings of oak were polished, and the stone floor well swept. The lamps burned without smoking. There was a bowl of daffodils on a table. He smiled.

"You have done well, Enit," he told her. "Your new mistress will arrive by nightfall, 1 have been informed. She may want to bathe after her journey. Make certain a tub is ready."

"Yes, my lord," Enit said, bobbing another curtsey. Her uncle was stewardat Haven, and this was a great opportunity she had been given, particularly considering her mother was Welsh and not English. Enit was sixteen and had been in service at the castle for five years. She was a plain rather than pretty girl, with brown hair and eyes.

Edward de Beaulieu left the apartment and went in search of his priest, Father John. All the legalities had been signed and sealed at Montgomery with regard to his marriage. All that was left was for the priest to perform the sacrament. He decided upon the morrow so his bride might have a proper night's rest. The king had personally instructed him that the marriage was to be consummated on his wedding night.

"I do not trust ap Gruffydd," Henry had said. "Breach the girl, and make certain the bloody sheet flies from the castle top on the following morning for all to see."

"Use her well," Prince Edward had continued. "You want her with child as quickly as possible, my lord, else her sly sire attempt to annul your marriage and take her back to use to better advantage elsewhere. The Welsh are not honorable peoples, but with ap Gruffydd's daughter in our power, we may keep him under control. He must love the wench that he has kept her so secretly all these years."