Deborah Hale - Border Bride

To a man, the chiefs of Deheubarth had heeded him.

Now with Empress Maud’s promised reward beckoning, Con had come to Powys on the latter half of his errand, to stir up trouble for the Marcher lords of Salop. He judged himself at least another full day’s journey away from Hen Coed, the stronghold of powerful border chieftain Macsen ap Gryffith.

When Con emerged from the eaves of the forest, he spied a thin plume of smoke rising from beyond the crest of the next hill. It must come from a dwelling of some kind. A dwelling where he could expect to receive warm hospitality on a cool spring night, along with the latest news from the surrounding country. All for the price of a song and a tale.

And if his usual luck held, he might find a comely lass among the household on whom he could exercise his ivory smile and extravagant flattery. Somehow, that prospect did not hold its usual appeal for Con.

Since coming to Wales, he’d found his appetite for feminine company unaccountably dulled. Could it be his age? Though often mistaken for a good bit younger, he was a trifle past thirty.

Or was his fleeting interest in the women he met always tempered by bittersweet memories of one woman? Long-slumbering recollections roused since Con’s boon companion, Rowan DeCourtenay, had found the one lady for whom he’d been destined.

Heading toward the smoke, Con shook his head and chuckled to himself. Queer that he should still burn for the one lass of whom he’d never made a conquest, when others he’d bedded had long since faded from his memory.

“Mother,” sang nine-year-old Myfanwy as she skipped into the washhouse at Glyneira, “Idwal said to tell you there’s a traveller come. Shall I fetch my harp and keep him company till supper? Or should I offer him water first?”

Enid looked up from her task of cleansing wool in the great iron cauldron. With the back of her hand, she nudged several fine tendrils of dark hair off her brow. They’d escaped her long braid, teased into curls by steam and sweat.

Traveller? Could Lord Macsen have come so soon?

Why did her belly suddenly feel full of wet wool at the thought of her chosen suitor arriving earlier than she’d expected him? Perhaps because Glyneira wasn’t yet fit to receive such exalted company, she decided. For a dozen good sensible reasons, Enid wanted to wed the border chief. She couldn’t afford to make an unfavorable impression.

“Of course you must offer him water straightaway, my pet. A big girl like you should know that by now.” Enid couldn’t help but smile at the child who looked so little like herself. Both Myfanwy and young Davy took after their late father, who’d had Mercian blood. “If our guest accepts, then we’ll know he means to stay the night at least.”

The ceremonial offer of water to wash a traveller’s tired feet was a tradition as old as the Welsh hills. If a guest refused, it meant he would not bide the night under his host’s roof. If he accepted, then the hospitality of the house would be his for as long as he chose to stay. Enid cherished the comforting familiarity of such traditions.

Myfanwy bobbed her golden head, eager as eager. “If the stranger says he’ll take water, can I wash his feet?”

“Not this time.” If Macsen had come to Glyneira, Enid wanted to make certain he was properly received—with her best ewer and basin, herb-sweetened water neither too hot nor too cold, and her softest cloths for drying. “I’ll see to it as soon as I tidy myself up. You can entertain him with your harping and singing, in the meantime. Go along now. Our guest will be pleased to hear you, I’ve no doubt, for you have a sweeter song than a linnet.”

As the child raced off, her mother called after her, “Tell Auntie Gaynor I need her to come finish a job for me.”

The wool only wanted one more rinse. Enid knew she could trust her sister-in-law not to handle the fleece over-much and risk felting it.

Hiking up her skirts, she dashed the short distance from the wash shed to the back entrance of the house, startling an old goose that ruffled up its feathers and hissed at her.

“Keep a civil tongue, or I might pluck and roast you for our guest’s supper,” Enid warned the testy fowl.

The goose waddled off with its bill in the air.

The lady of the house managed to reach her own small chamber without being harassed further. After pulling off her coarse-woven work tunic, she rummaged in the chest at the foot of her bed, looking for an overgarment better suited to welcoming such an important guest.

A flash of green caught her eye. From the very bottom of the trunk Enid lifted a fine woolen kirtle, trimmed at the neck and wrists with close-stitched embroidery. Her breath caught in her throat as she held the garment in her hands.

During the years since she’d come to Glyneira, she had found one excuse after another to avoid wearing it, until she’d almost forgotten it existed. She had worn this fine garment on her wedding day, though it had been fashioned to impress a much grander bridegroom than Howell ap Rhodri.

It reminded Enid of all she’d risked once upon a time. And all she’d lost in the risking.

“Oh, don’t be fanciful,” she scolded herself as she slipped the garment over her head. “A kirtle’s a kirtle and this is the best you own.”

As she covered her hair with a fresh veil, a small boy barrelled into the chamber. A stubby-legged puppy scrambled through the rushes at the child’s heels.

“Myfanwy said to tell you the man wants water.” Blurting out his message, Master Davy looked ready to bolt out of the room as fast as he’d bolted in—until he caught a good look at his mother.

“What’re you dressed so grand for, Mam?” Davy scooped up the puppy, who wriggled in his arms. “You look as fair as the queen of springtime. All you need is a crown of flowers in your hair like Myfanwy makes for hers.”

“Queen of springtime, is it?” Enid blushed as she remembered a young fellow who’d once fashioned a garland of spring blossoms for her hair and offered equally extravagant praise to her looks. That fellow had danced all over her heart, then danced away…never to return.

“I mind you’ll make a bard yet, Davy-lad.” Enid ruffled her son’s honey-brown hair, determined not to let thoughts of Con ap Ifan spoil this moment. “But you make it sound as though your poor mother goes around like a slattern most of the time. Away with you now before that dog messes on the floor again.”

As the boy ran off laughing, Enid noticed how tall he’d sprouted through the winter. It was a wonder he could still wriggle into his tunic, it had grown so tight. She’d have to look through her other trunk to see if there were any clothes Bryn had outgrown that might now fit Davy.

Thinking of her older son made Enid remember their guest. Of the many boons she stood to gain from wedding Lord Macsen, she most craved the chance to reunite her family. It’d been such a long time since Howell had sent the boy away for fosterage. She’d rather hoped Macsen might bring her son along on this visit.

A wistful pang gave way to questioning. It wasn’t like Macsen ap Gryffith to travel alone, without a small but skilled escort of armed men. Did the border chief have reason to call on Glyneira in secret? Or could something be wrong?

From out of the chest Enid snatched a handsome basin and ewer of beaten copper along with linen drying cloths, all too fine for any but Glyneira’s most honored guests. Making her way to the kitchen to fetch hot water, she schooled her steps to a brisk but decorous pace appropriate for a lady of the maenol. Her thoughts fluttered though, like doves in a cote when a fox prowled the ground below.

What if Macsen had changed his mind about the betrothal he’d hinted at when Howell lay dying? What if he’d never meant it in the first place—only wanted to calm her fears for the future? She’d managed well enough, had even come to enjoy being mistress of Glyneira in her own right instead of always deferring to a husband.