Chapter 23
March, 1177
Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd
To Longsword, it was as if he had been cast down into the depths of a deep lake. When his eyes were open he could see light beyond the murkiness, shimmering hazily on the surface of the water. But it was a struggle to keep them open, to keep his sense of direction, to keep flailing the arms which would propel him upwards into the world he knew he had once inhabited. Sometimes the effort overcame him and he would give up and slip back into the inky depths. Sometimes he felt a warm hand on his cold body, consoling him. Sometimes he heard voices from the surface calling to him and encouraging him.
And then…the struggle seemed not so great, or perhaps he had gained in strength. He forced himself to concentrate on moving his muscles until, body aching, he finally burst through the gloomy, icy water and emerged into the peace of familiar surroundings.
At first he couldn’t even shift his head. He moved his eyes instead, and saw the blurred outline of a woman standing near the open doorway to the chamber. There was something familiar about her, he thought…and then he remembered. She was his woman; she was carrying his child. Thank God, he thought with relief, he remembered something. He wasn’t quite sure how he had ended up in his bed in the middle of the day and he didn’t even know what day it was, but he recognized the woman all right. Surely the rest would come back in a few moments. He was tired. He closed his eyes.
Suddenly they flew open again. He couldn’t remember her name!
She had turned away from the door and closed it. She was walking towards the bed. He cursed his eyes, blinking furiously in an attempt to clear his vision but it was no good. His eyes felt as if they’d been dipped in sand: gritty and scratchy.
“Wait a moment,” she said.
She disappeared from his view. When he tried to turn his head to follow her, a searing pain ripped up the side of his neck and, not expecting it, he grunted involuntarily.
“Don’t move,” she ordered sharply.
He felt a little annoyed at her tone. He was the master here, not her. He opened his mouth to tell her so but nothing came out except a few hoarse,indecipherable bursts of air.
She returned. There was a stool near the bed and she sat on it. She held a linen cloth in her left hand and she leaned over him and dabbed gently with it at his eyes. The cloth had been soaked with warmed water; he felt the grit loosen and wash away. He blinked several more times until he could see clearly. He frowned. He didn’t know this woman.
He stared at her. No, that wasn’t right; he did know her. He couldn’t remember where but he knew he had seen her before. She stared back at him, a faint smile on her lips. Her eyes were large and brown and crinkled at the corners.
“Welcome back, my lord,” she said. “You’ve had a nice long rest. You must be thirsty.” She stood up again and moved out of his view but came back almost immediately with a cup in her hand. She wrapped the cloth around it and tipped it towards his mouth. “Don’t try to raise your head. Just swallow slowly. It’s wine flavored with rosemary. Just smelling rosemary reminds me of spring. But it’s a very beneficial herb, too. It makes you feel nice and comfortable inside…”
He felt a thin trickle of the wine invade his mouth. He swallowed gingerly. His entire neck and left shoulder ached and he didn’t want to exacerbate the pain. The chattering girl seemed to know how much liquid was enough to fill his mouth before he was forced to swallow. Not a drop ran down the sides of his face.
She pulled the cup away and blotted his lips with the cloth. “I don’t want you to have too much or you’ll fall asleep. I’d like to get some broth inside you, first.”
Christ! His mind was full of cobwebs. He couldn’t concentrate. It was driving him mad, wondering who the hell she was and what she was doing with him. Gladys…Somewhere in her rambling she’d said the name ‘Gladys.’ He remembered Gladys now; she was the one who was carrying his child. And Teleri—that was his damned wife. So who was this?
She’d gone back to the table. Longsword found that if he gritted his teeth and moved his head very slowly, the pain was not so great. He watched her move busily at the table. She was dressed in something plain and brown and her dark hair was gathered into a single loose braid which reached almost to her waist. She was tall for a woman—she must surely tower over Teleri, he thought—but not ungainly. She worked quickly, cutting up bread and mixing it into a shallow bowl. The rhythmic motion of her hands and his own steady breathing started to make him drowsy…
“I told you not to move your head, my lord!”
His eyes snapped open. She was sitting near him again, the bowl in one hand. She gave him an accusing look. “I don’t want you to stretch and pull the wound until I’ve had the chance to look at it,” she explained.
Wound? That must be why his neck and shoulder ached. Now he remembered: the Welsh had shot an arrow at him; he’d recovered but then the spot had broken open. Yes—it had happened at Llanlleyn. And the Welsh had burned Llanlleyn to the ground before he’d had the chance to do it himself. Rhirid ap Maelgwn…He had yet to take his revenge on the Welshman.
But right now he wasn’t about to allow this chit to dictate to him. If he wanted to move his damned head, he’d move his damned head! So he straightened it up, just to show her who was boss and instantly a bolt of pain seared through his neck. Somehow he managed to keep his expression even so she didn’t notice…he hoped she hadn’t noticed.
Luckily, she didn’t mention it. “It’s gotten cool, my lord,” she said apologetically about the broth. “But at least that will make it easier for you to swallow. Sir Richard told me you were thin to start with, but you’ve gotten very skinny since you fell ill with the fever. Gladys was hardly able to feed you because you thrashed around so much.”
He listened to her ramble on with only half an ear because he found he had to concentrate on chewing the soggy pieces of bread and then swallowing. It was actually satisfying; he hadn’t realized he was hungry. But it was a real effort and by the time he’d finished, he was exhausted.
The last thing he was conscious of before he slipped away into a deep sleep was the dampened cloth gently blotting his mouth clean.
Richard Delamere was extremely pleased to learn that Longsword had finally awakened although equally disappointed that he hadn’t been there at the time. Once he passed around the good news, the entire mood of the castle lightened. Every one of the Normans had been holding his breath, waiting. To those who had seen Longsword in the throes of the fever, it seemed a miracle. One day he had been at the very threshold of the gates of Heaven and then, only three days afterwards, he’d been snatched back to earth.
Delamere felt it premature to thank Gwalaes for her work. After all, although he could see quite plainly that Longsword breathed easily and no longer flung himself violently around a sweat-drenched bed, he had yet to speak to him or hear him speak. And despite Gwalaes’ conviction that all was well, he still wouldn’t let her leave Rhuddlan. She claimed that the worst was over, that only rest and nourishment were necessary to fully restore Longsword and that anyone could serve him now but in Delamere’s mind she was the sole link between Longsword’s death and return to life and he wasn’t about to lose her until Longsword was up and walking.
That night Gwalaes, her mind churning, lay awake on her pallet on the floor in Longsword’s chamber. She wanted desperately to get back to the abbey. She and Bronwen had never before been separated and, even though she knew such fears were groundless, she worried that her child wasn’t eating properly or sleeping quietly.
At length, she fell into a fitful sleep, only to be awakened by a nightmare. The vivid memory of it receded almost immediately but she knew quite clearly what it had been about: Bronwen. Something terrible happening to Bronwen. Something terrible had happened to Bronwen. Gwalaes was in agony for the rest of the night. She tried to convince herself it was her earlier worrying that had put apprehension for Bronwen in her mind but the horrible sinking feeling in the pit
of her stomach would not go away. Only seeing her daughter again would dissolve it. She heard Longsword shift his position in the dark. Tomorrow, she thought with determination, he must come fully back. Delamere had all but promised when Longsword regained his senses, she would be permitted to leave Rhuddlan.
It was a simple enough matter for Rhirid and his small band to come up on the abbey in the cold, clear morning light and to swoop down upon its inhabitants like wild marauders, swords drawn and whooping. It was simple enough to call forth the abbess and to force the admission that someone there had indeed tended to the seriously wounded Norman leader. It was simple enough to threaten to burn down the entire compound if that person wasn’t immediately given up to him. The rest of it was not so simple.
“The person whom you seek isn’t here,” the abbess told Rhirid calmly. She did not appear to be frightened by his sudden invasion. “Knights came from Rhuddlan. Lord William has the fever and Gwalaes was compelled to return with them.”
Rhirid stared at the abbess. This was a twist in his plan he hadn’t foreseen. “You permitted her to leave? These knights are our enemy. You must have heard by now what happened at Llanlleyn.”
“We are very sorry for the trouble at Llanlleyn,” the abbess said carefully. “It certainly seems to have been the fault of the Norman knights. But it is our Christian duty to help those who need us—”
“So they might recover to order new murders? New destruction?” Rhirid cut in angrily. “My father’s people lost everything when Llanlleyn was burned to the ground! And now you tell me your healer, this—this—Gwalaes, has gone to help the Normans again?”
“She couldn’t do otherwise, Lord Rhirid! They were holding her daughter hostage. It was only through my intercession that they agreed to leave the girl here but if Gwalaes had refused to go, there was no telling what they might have done with Bronwen!” The abbess stopped to catch her breath. Normally patient and reserved, the events of the last several weeks coupled with this fresh assault had pushed her to the edge of civility. “You and your hooligans can turn around and go home,” she added. “You’re no different from the knights who came rushing in, demanding this and that. Only they got here first!”
Rhirid raised his eyebrows in surprise at her tone. But the insult just made his decision easier. At first he was embarrassed to learn the object of his quest was not in residence. His men had looked to him for answers and it seemed the one he’d confidently given them was fizzling into nothing. They watched him now, expectantly, certain of his ability because he was as aggressive and determined as they were but with the additional power of being a chief’s son. He dared not disappoint them. They might never give him another chance.
His decision was obvious. “We’ve come here to take revenge for the destruction of Llanlleyn,” he said to the abbess, “because William Longsword was cured by your healer. It would be justice if we burned your abbey to the ground. But—” he held up a hand to override the abbess’ imminent objection, “—we will go without further trouble…if you give us the girl.”
The abbess paled. “Bronwen?”
“That was the name you mentioned.”
“No! Bronwen is a little girl! You can’t take out your revenge on a mere child!”
“I have no wish to harm a child,” Rhirid agreed. “What I really want is her mother. If the Normans were successful using the girl as bait, why should I not also succeed?”
“It is an evil plan!”
He shrugged. “Very well.” He called Dylan ab Owain over to his side. “Bring every female child you can find to stand before me,” he instructed.
For the first time, the abbess looked frightened. “We are under the protection of the bishop at St. Asaph’s and of Prince Dafydd himself!”
”We have no quarrel with the prince, only with those who shelter and aid our common enemy.”
The peaceful morning was brutally shattered by the screams and pleas of children ripped from their parents and carried forcibly to form a small group under the shadow of Rhirid’s spotted grey horse. There weren’t many girls; perhaps a dozen. But there was only one who was bent over a scraggly grey dog, trying vainly to comfort herself by comforting it.
Bronwen didn’t understand what was happening but she knew the man on the horse wanted her. He had said her name; she was the only Bronwen at the abbey. She glanced up and craned her neck, searching for the woman who was watching her while her mother was gone but when their eyes met, the woman covered her face with her hands and turned away. That just made Bronwen even more nervous.
She looked instead at the angry man who had said her name. He was speaking very loudly to the abbess, who seemed upset. The other men stood about, unsmiling. Bronwen was afraid of them. They were rough-looking and held long swords in their hands. The Normans had been neat and had kept their swords by their sides.
She heard her name again. Kigva was barking and growling, standing her ground. Bronwen saw with dismay that one of the rough men—one who had long black hair and big black mustaches—was coming towards her. She backed away but there wasn’t anywhere she could go. Too late she saw that she was standing alone with Kigva; the other girls had fled to the safety of their mothers’ arms.
Then one of the sisters lurched forward suddenly as if she would throw herself between Bronwen and the menace to her safety. But after a few steps, she stumbled and clutched a hand to her chest. Her mouth moved but no words came out and finally her eyes rolled back in her head. Before anyone nearby could catch her, she collapsed onto the ground, dead as a stone.
“Murderer!” a woman screamed. “Murderer!”
Bronwen shrieked as Dylan ab Owain seized her and lifted her off her feet. Kigva hurled herself at the strange pair of legs but the warrior gave her a mighty kick which sent her skidding across the ground with a whimper. The Welshman handed Bronwen up to the nearest horseman.
Rhirid watched the proceedings without expression. Inwardly, however, he was annoyed. He couldn’t understand the tremendous uproar to his seizure of one small child. It wasn’t even as if someone had stepped forward and claimed to be kin to the girl. She was practically an orphan; what did she matter?
He nodded to Dylan. “Fire anything that will burn.”
“No!” The abbess stepped forward. “You promised if you got Bronwen—”
“If you gave her up to me,” Rhirid interrupted. “Which you didn’t.”
“Please, Lord Rhirid! Isn’t it enough that you have the child? That one of our own is dead because of you and your men?”
Rhirid craned his neck to watch the first straw and mud roof succumb to one of Dylan’s torches. There were shrieks and screams from the on-lookers.
“No,” he answered at length. He glanced down at the abbess. “I have the feeling that when it comes to William Longsword, it won’t be enough until one of us is dead.” He took the reins up in his hands. All around him the timbered buildings were burning. Although some of the inhabitants had fled, most were gathered near the stone church and the nuns. “Tell him I look forward to meeting him again.” Then, without warning, he kicked the flanks of his mount and shouted to his men. After several thunderous moments, the abbey grounds were once more peaceful.
Except for the wailing.