Bertrice Small - A Memory of Love

"Good! Good!" ap Gruffydd said. He looked about. "Where is my daughter, Morgan?"

"She is out hunting, my prince."

"So she has been taught to ride," ap Gruffydd said, sounding satisfied with the news. "Excellent!"

"Rhonwyn is the best rider and soldier at Cythraul!" came Glynn's endorsement. "All the men say so, Tad!"

Ap Gruffydd chuckled. "A soldier, is she?" He was amused by his son's innocence, but then all the boy had ever known in his thirteen years were places of isolation. Perhaps that should change, but first he had his daughter to deal with, and her future was assured.

"Aye, Tad," the boy continued, and Morgan ap Owen could only silently stand by. "Rhonwyn is very skilled with sword, main gauche, javelin, and mace, too. With the alborium, she never misses her target. She's our best hunter, Tad!" It was obvious the boy was extremely proud of his sister.

Ap Gruffydd's attention had been quite engaged by his son's recitation. He looked to his captain. "You taught my daughter how to use weapons, Morgan?"

"It was either teach her or have someone get injured, my lord prince" came the reply. "She wore padding and even has her own armor. We thought it best."

"My daughter is the best soldier at Cythraul, I am told. Did you teach her nothing but warfare?"

"It is all we could teach her, my lord prince," Morgan replied.

"And my son? Have you taught him warfare, too? Why is he not considered as skilled as his sister?" came the query.

"I do not like weapons, Tad," Glynn spoke up for himself. "Oh, I can use a sword if I must, and I ride well, but I do not like warfare. I cannot bear to see anything killed, even an animal."

"Jesu! Mary!" ap Gruffydd swore, startling the boy, who shrank beneath his father's fierce gaze. Seeing it, the prince asked, "What do you like, Glynn ap Llywelyn?"

"I… I l-like poetry, and tales of daring and magic," he half whispered. His father was not pleased. Did he not like stories?

"The lad has the makings of a fine bard," Morgan said. "Gwilym our cook has taught him to play the harp and all the stories and poetry he knows. You'll see tonight in the hall what an excellent young bard you have sired, my lord prince."

"A lass who's a warrior, and a lad who is a poet. Jesu!" ap Gruffydd said. Then he laughed at the absurdity of it.

At that moment there was a clatter of horses behind them at the fortress's entrance, and a party of hunters came through.

"Ho! Cousin Morgan," their leader called out to the captain. "I've brought you a fine young deer for our dinner!" The speaker rode directly up to Morgan ap Owen and pushed the deer from the saddle to fall at the captain's feet.

"Rhonwyn?" Llywelyn ap Gruffydd didn't know whether to be pleased or horrified at the young ruffian who suddenly stared down at him at the mention of her name.

Recognition dawned in the green eyes. "By the rood, lads! 'Tis my sire, the prince, come to pay us a call." She slid easily from her saddle and bowed mockingly. "My lord prince, I am at your service."

He glared at her intently. Aye, she was female. Her bosoms betrayed her, hut other than that her sex was indistinguishable from any of the other men in the fortress. Her hair was cropped like a man's and dirty. She was dirty. Why had he thought she would be like her mother? Like his delicate and gentle Vala? "Jesu! Mary!" he swore. Then anger began to overwhelm him. He turned on Morgan ap Owen.

"This is how you have raised my daughter? To be the toughest soldier at Cythraul? What the hell were you thinking, Morgan?"

Morgan ap Owen wasn't in the least intimidated by his prince. "What did you expect us to do, Llywelyn? Ten years ago you brought me a five-year-old girl-child and a wee laddie of three. You left them here and have not returned once in all that time to see how they were. I did my best by them. They have been well fed and clothed and, aye, loved by the men of this fortress! We taught them what we could. Honor. Duty to you and to our people. What else was there?"

"You might have taught her that she was a lass!" roared the prince of Wales.

"How?" demanded his captain. "There are no women here, Llywelyn. We guard the Welshry for you. Oh, occasionally my men seek out a local whore, but they are not the kind of women we bring into the fort, nor are they the kind of women you would want your daughter associating with, my lord prince. Do not complain to me. Rhonwyn is a fine young lass even if she has not learned how to simper and preen like the highborn ladies you have undoubtedly been associating with, my lord prince. Do not blame me that your daughter has not the feminine traits you desire her to have. If you wanted her to have those virtues, you should have taken her to your sister, the abbess, instead of bringing her here! Come into the hall now. I need a drink if we are to continue this argument."

Ap Gruffydd burst out laughing again and followed his captain. Inside the hall they quaffed cups of apple beer that had been aging in barrels since the previous autumn. The beer was strong with just a hint of sweetness. Their immediate thirst satisfied, they sat by the fire pit, and the prince explained the reason for his visit.

"I have promised Rhonwyn in marriage," he said, "but the bridegroom will expect someone in a gown with a gentle manner, not this breeked and swearing huntress you have created out of my child. I thought she would be like her mother, but she isn't at all."

"How could she be?" Morgan answered. "She has had no example but ours to follow, and we are a fort of rough men."

"Jesu! Mary!" the prince swore softly again.

"Can't you find another of your female relations for this man?" the captain asked sensibly. "Did you ever even bother to acknowledge Rhonwyn and Glynn to the church?"

"Aye, that was done years ago. The prior in Cwm Hir at the Cistercian monastery was told. He has documents with my signature." Llywelyn ap Gruffydd sighed deeply and shook his head.

"The marriage is the unwritten portion of the treaty I signed with King Henry at Montgomery. As a show of good faith, I offered Rhonwyn in marriage with one of the king's chosen Marcher lords in the Englishry. His name is Edward de Beaulieu, Lord Thorley of Haven Castle. Having offered my daughter, I cannot substitute another without appearing to be deceitful with King Henry. It could jeopardize everything I have worked for, Morgan. Certainly you can understand why I will not do that."

The captain nodded. "Aye, I can, Llywelyn. You have worked hard for our people, but what are you to do now? Rhonwyn is hardly anyone's idea of a blushing bride." He chuckled and his gaze went across the hall to where the girl was dicing and drinking with her companions. It was not Rhonwyn's fault that she was so unsuitable. "She is a virgin," he said as if to cheer his overlord. "Of that I am certain. She has no interest in the young men, although of late several have approached her. She has physically injured them in her refusals."

"At least that is to the good," the prince remarked dryly. "I shall have to take her to my sister at Mercy Abbey. Gwynllian will be able to make her into a maiden fit to wed with a lord. I know now I should have done that in the first place, Morgan. And perhaps Glynn might have been better off there, too, until he was old enough to be fostered out, but I didn't want anyone to know of the children while they were so helpless. And I didn't want to separate them when they had just lost their mother so tragically. I should have come back for them." He sighed. "The years have gone too quickly, and there never seemed to be enough time for them. Still, at least my children have survived." He chuckled. "The English were mightily surprised when I announced I had a young daughter of marriageable age. How they would have loved to have Rhonwyn as their hostage these years past."