Bertrice Small: A Memory of Love

© 2000

The prince lay atop his lover, groaning and sweating his pleasure. The child, standing at the head of the bed, watched impassively. The prince's eyes met hers.

"Go outside, Rhonwyn," he said.

" 'Tis raining," the child whined.

"Then take your sheepskin and lie quietly by the fire, lass," he replied. Beneath him the woman moaned softly, shifting her hips suggestively as her impatient ardor grew.

"I want to sleep with my mam," Rhonwyn said stubbornly.

"Nay, lass," the prince laughed softly. "Tonight I sleep with your mam. Now make your bed by the fire. If I have to get up, I'll beat you. Go!"

Finally cowed, the child did as she had been bid and lay by the fire, wrapping herself in the warm sheepskin. She hated it when the prince came to their cottage. Then her mother had no time for her or her baby brother. The prince was their father, her mother had told them. They owed him their love and their allegiance. Without him they would starve. She and Glynn must always remember that.

Her brother was already asleep by the fire, his thumb in his small mouth, his dark lashes brushing his rosy cheek. She loved Glynn more than any other person on this earth. He did not prefer the prince to her as her mother did. Yet when Llywelyn ap Gruffydd came to their cottage, he always brought his children gifts and greeted them lovingly. But I still don't have to like him, Rhonwyn reasoned silently to herself.

She heard her mother cry out, and the prince's deep voice said, "Christ's bones, Vala, no one feeds my itch like you do!" And then her mother laughed her husky laugh.

Rhonwyn's eyes closed at the sound, and she slept at last. There was no use in trying to stay awake. The prince would remain the night.

The late spring rain was heavy and chill. Some of it was seeping through the roof where the thatch was worn. The fire had gone out the day before, and the two children did not know how to restart it. They huddled together to keep warm. Their mother's body lay on the bed amid a pool of blood that was now congealed and blackening. The stench in the cottage had already numbed their nostrils, even as the cold had numbed their fingers and toes. The wind suddenly howled in mournful fashion, and the smaller of the two children whimpered, pressing himself closer to his elder sister.

Rhonwyn uerch Llywelyn focused her brain again as she had these past two days. How was she to save Glynn and herself from certain death? Their mama was dead, birthing the prince's latest child. Their cottage was isolated from any village, for decent women would not tolerate the prince's whore and his bastards. The old crone who had helped Vala in her two previous births had not been there this time, because this time the child had come too soon. Much too soon.

They needed to be warm, Rhonwyn thought sleepily. How did one start a fire? If only it would cease raining. Perhaps they could walk and find another cottage or village-but whatever a village was for she didn't really know, having never left the hill on which she had lived her whole five years. Rhonwyn hugged her three-year-old brother tighter against her when he whimpered again.

"Hungry," he complained to her.

"There is nothing left, Glynn," she repeated for the tenth time. "When the rain stops we will go and find food. If we leave the cottage now, we will surely die." They were apt to die in any event, Rhonwyn thought irritably. If she could only start a fire to warm them, the gnawing in their bellies might not seem so fierce. She hadn't meant for the fire to go out, but when her mam began screaming with her pain, Rhonwyn had taken her brother from their cottage so he would not be frightened. They had gone out on the hillside to pick flowers for the new baby. But when they had returned their mother was dead, and the lire was out. Not even a lingering coal remained that Rhonwvn might coax into a warm flame as she had often seen her mot her do. Then the rain had begun. It had rained all night and into this day, which was almost over.

Suddenly Rhonwvn's ears pricked up at the sound of dogs baying in the distance. The noise grew closer and closer until it was directly outside. The door to the cottage was slammed open, and Llywelyn ap Grulfydd was outlined in the failing light of day. He stepped quickly inside, his eyes sweeping about the room. Seeing his children huddled together on their pallet, he asked them, "What has happened here?"

"Mam's dead," Rhonwyn answered her father. "The new baby came too soon."

"Why wasn't the midwife here?" he demanded.

"Who was to send for her? And where is she? Mam was screaming and screaming. I took Glynn and went outside. When we returned Mam was dead. There was no fire. No food. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know where to go, or I would have gone. Our mam is dead, and you and your rutting have killed her! She would not have died but that you put another baby in her belly."

Startled at the venom in the child's voice, he looked down at her, seeing his daughter for the first time. It was like looking into a glass but for her coloring, which was Vala's. She didn't like him, he knew. Her green eyes glared angrily into his. He would have laughed but for the seriousness of the situation. Rhonwyn was certainly his get and every bit as intense with her anger as he was.

"I'll make a fire," he replied. "Go outside and look in my saddlebag. There is food in it. Do not mind the dogs." He turned away from her and began to prepare a new fire. Seeing his small son staring at him, half fearful, half curious, he said, "Come here, lad, and I will show you how to make a fire so you will never be cold again."

The little boy crept from the pallet and came to stand by his father, watching fascinated as ap Gruffydd gathered a bit of kindling together and drew a flint from his purse. Using the blade of his knife, the prince stroked the flint until it sparked, and the kindling caught light. Glynn's eyes were wide with amazement, and the prince smiled, reaching out to ruffle the boy's dark hair. Ap Gruffydd added wood to the fire until it was blazing merrily, and the chill began to dissipate.

The man stood and handed the flint to his son. " 'Tis yours, Glynn ap Llywelyn. Now you know how to make a fire, but only in the fireplace for now, eh, lad?"

"Aye, Tad" came the reply, and the prince smiled again. It was the first time the child had called him father.

"So, you know I am your sire," he said.

"Mam said," the child answered simply.

"She did not lie, God assoil her sweet soul." Now the prince's attention was drawn back to his dead lover. She must be buried, although no priest would say the proper words over her. It didn't matter. God would have Vala uerch Huw because she was a good woman. He would not condemn her to a fiery hell because she had been Llywelyn ap Gruffydd's leman. He wished now he had married her, even though she had had neither wealth nor powerful family ties to recommend her. At least his children would have been legitimate. Well, he would formally acknowledge them. That would please Vala. He should begin to consider marriage, he thought. He was well past thirty and had nought but his two wee bastards to carry on his name.

Rhonwyn had reentered the cottage. She took bread and cheese, making small pieces for her little brother. Seeing the flint, she said, "What's that?" She picked it up and rolled the quartz in her hand gently.