Читать книгу Border Bride - Deborah Hale, Deborah Hale - Страница 10

A pity he couldn’t linger here, Con found himself thinking as he cast an admiring eye over the cariad of his boyhood, since ripened into vivid, beguiling flower.

Enid’s sudden appearance and sharp questions had taken him by surprise. Yet in another way they hadn’t. Something about the child had put her mother firmly in his mind, though he’d scarcely been aware of it at the time. The sweet lilt of her young voice, perhaps, or some trick of her smile, for all else about the pair went by contraries.

The girl was fair and tall for her age and race, while her mother had the dark, fey delicacy of a true Welsh beauty. Full dark brows cast a bewitching contrast to her dainty elfin features. Her eyes were the dusky purple of black-thorn plums, and her hair—what Con could see of it and what he recalled—still black as a rook’s wing. Skin like apple blossoms and lips the rich intoxicating hue of Malmsey wine.

Indeed, a kind of besotted dizziness came over Con as he drank in her twilight loveliness.

A trill of laughter from the child startled him halfways sober again. “Mam, do you mean to wash our guest’s feet before the water gets cold?”

Enid gave a startled glance down at the ewer and basin in her hands as if they’d appeared there by magic.

“Aye.” She took a step toward Con, then hesitated. “If you wish it, that is. I only heard secondhand that you’d accepted the offer of water.”

“With pleasure.” Con set his harp aside and pried off his boots, wondering if he’d only imagined the shadow that had dimmed her features. Had she hoped he’d change his mind about accepting the water? “After a day’s brisk walk, your hospitality is most welcome. The young lady’s music has already lightened the weariness of my spirit. Such a jewel is a mighty credit to you and her tad.”

Enid had dropped to her knees on the rush-strewn floor, and begun to pour gently steaming water into the basin. At Con’s tribute to her daughter, her slender form tensed.

“Myfanwy, cariad, will you go check how Auntie Gaynor is coming with the last rinse of the wool? That’s a good girl.”

When the child had made a subdued exit, Enid explained, “My daughter does mighty credit to her father’s memory. She’s much like him in many ways.”

“I’m sorry.” Con chided himself less for the compliment gone awry than for the envious curiosity that flamed in him. By the tone of Enid’s answer, he might guess how much or how little she had loved Myfanwy’s father.

It should not matter to him…but it did.

“Was it very long ago you lost your husband?” At the last instant he managed to stop himself from adding the Welsh endearment, cariad.

“In the fall.” Enid pushed the basin toward him. Though her curt reply told him she didn’t want to dwell on the matter, it gave no real clue about her feelings for the man. “There was some trouble with the Normans, so Howell joined the muster of Macsen ap Gryffith. He took sore wounds in the fighting. They brought him home where he lingered until the first snow.”

Con eased his feet into the warm water as he digested this intriguing scrap of news about Macsen ap Gryffith. If the border chief had lost men in an autumn skirmish with the Normans of Salop, he might not need much nudging to retaliate in the spring.

“What brings you to the borders?” asked Enid, her head bent over the basin. “Did you grow tired of plying your sword for hire to the Normans?”

Her question caught Con like an unexpected thrust after a cunning feint. For a moment his glib tongue froze in his mouth. If he told her he’d come on a mission from the very people who’d killed her husband, she’d likely turf his backside out the gate, traditions of Welsh hospitality be damned.

“You might say I’m taking a rest from it.” No lie, that—not a bold-faced one, anyhow. “I mean to go back to the Holy Land, though.”

As Sir Conwy of Somewhere, riding at the head of an armed company of his own men. The dream sang a most agreeable melody in Con’s thoughts.

“In the meantime, barding lets me enjoy a bit of adventure without the danger. Mercenary or travelling bard, both make good jobs for a vagabond.”

“You’ve always had itchy heels, haven’t you, Con?” Enid mused aloud as she washed his feet. “I suppose you’ll be on your way from here tomorrow morning?”

The water was no more than tepid, but Enid’s touch set flames licking up Con’s legs to light a blaze in his loins. He could almost fancy it searing the itch of wanderlust from his flesh…but that was nonsense.

Though part of him longed to stay and visit, that tiny voice of caution urged Con to go while he still had a choice.

“Tomorrow.” He nodded. “Before Chester dogs arise, if the weather holds fair. I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”

A quivering tension seemed to ebb out of Enid as she dried his feet. For all her show of welcome, she clearly wanted to be rid of him. The realization vexed Con. He wasn’t used to women craving his absence.

Enid raised her face to him then, and Con struggled to draw breath. In the depths of her eyes shimmered a vision of the playful sprite he remembered from their childhood—so close and physically accessible, yet as far beyond the reach of an orphan plowboy as the beckoning stars.

“I’m surprised to see you whole and hale after all these years. I feared you wouldn’t last a month as a hired soldier.”

She’d worried about him. The knowledge settled in Con’s belly like a hot, filling meal after a long fast. He hadn’t expected her to spare him a backward glance.

“White my world.” That’s what the Welsh said of a fellow who was lucky, and Con had been. “I’ve had the odd close shave, but always managed to wriggle out before the noose drew tight enough to throttle me. I’ll entertain your household with some of my adventures tonight, around the fire.”

He leaned forward, planting his elbows on his thighs. “That’s enough talk of me, though. You never did say how you came to Powys from your father’s maenol in Gwynedd. From time out of mind I heard nothing but that you were meant to wed Tryfan ap Huw, and go to be the lady of his grand estate on Ynys Mon.”

Enid scrambled to her feet and snatched up the basin so quickly that water sloshed over the rim to wet the reeds on the floor. “You ought to know better than most, Con, life has a way of turning out different than you expect.”

Which was exactly how he liked it. How tiresome the world would be without those random detours, bends in the road, hills that invited a body to climb and see what wonders lay beyond.

But Enid had never thought so. More than anyone Con had ever known, she’d longed for peace and security. She’d craved a smooth, straight, predictable path through life, content to forgo the marvels if that was the price for keeping out of harm’s way. What calamity had landed her here on the Marches where turmoil reigned?

Enid flinched from the memories Con’s question provoked, in much the way she would have avoided biting on a sore tooth. Once in her life she’d taken a risk, hoping to gain the only thing she’d ever wanted more than a safe, ordered, conventional life. She’d rocked the coracle and it had capsized, almost drowning her. That ruinous venture had taught her a harsh but necessary lesson about leaving well enough alone.

The man who had cost her so dearly spoke up. “Did this turn in your life bring you happiness, Enid?”

How dare he ask such a thing, as if he had any business in her happiness after all these years? And how dare he pretend to be taken by surprise over the unexpected direction her life had taken? He’d been there when the road had forked, after all. Then he had wandered away, lured by the fairy-piped tune of adventure, leaving her to bear the consequences.

A sharp answer hovered on her tongue, but died unspoken.

If Con ap Ifan had forgotten what happened between them thirteen years ago, on the eve of his departure from her father’s house, she did not wish to remind him—could not afford to remind him. For then he might guess what had become of her, and how it had all fallen out.

“It brought me my children.” She measured her words with care, anxious not to disclose too much, nor rouse his curiosity further with blatant evasion. “They are the greatest source of pride and happiness in my life.”

A grace she’d ill-deserved.

Con’s face brightened, as if she’d told him what he wanted to hear. “No wonder you’re proud of them. They’re a fine pair, though I only saw the little fellow for a moment. Your last yellow chick, is he?”

“I beg your leave for a moment,” she interrupted him, “to toss this water out.”

Somehow she knew that after inquiring about the baby of the family, Con would next ask if she had any children older than Myfanwy and Davy. “I must see that supper’s started, too. Will you take a drop of cider to refresh you until then?”

Con did not appear to notice that she hadn’t answered his question. “Your duties must be many now that you’re both master and mistress of the house.”

He waved her away with a rueful grin. “I won’t distract you from them. We’ll talk over old times and catch up with each other during the evening meal. In the meantime, if there’s aught I can do to make myself useful, bid me as you will. I can turn my hand to most anything.”

“I wouldn’t dream of putting a guest to work.” She didn’t want him snooping around the place, talking to folks about things he had no business knowing. “Take your ease and tune your harp until supper. It’s been a long while since we’ve been entertained by a minstrel from away. You’ll more than earn your bread and brychan tonight.”

She bustled off to prepare for the meal. And to make sure her children had plenty of little chores to keep them occupied and away from the hall until supper.

“He’ll be gone in the morning,” she muttered under her breath as she worked and directed others in their work. “He’ll be gone in the morning. He’ll be gone in the morning.”

The repetition calmed her, like reciting the Ave or the Paternoster.

Yet along with the rush of relief that surged through her every time she pictured Con ap Ifan going on his way tomorrow morn without a backward glance, a bothersome ebb tide of regret tugged at Enid, too.

A small but bright fire burned in the middle of Glyneira’s hall that evening, its smoke wafting up to the ceiling where it escaped through a hole in the roof. A sense of anticipation hung in the air, too, as Enid’s household partook of their supper.

There were over two dozen gathered that evening, most distant kin of Enid’s late husband. All eager to hear the wandering bard who, according to rumor, had fought in the Holy Land.

Enid sat at the high table with Howell’s two sisters, Helydd and Gaynor. She had placed Con at the other end, between the local priest and Gaynor’s husband, Idwal, who’d taken a blow on the head a few years before and never been quite the same since.

Though everyone at Glyneira had gotten used to Idwal’s halting speech, outsiders often had trouble understanding him. Father Thomas was voluble enough to make up for what Idwal lacked in conversation, and then some. His uncle had gone to Jerusalem on the Great Crusade and returned to Wales years later to ply a brisk trade in holy relics. Enid trusted the good father to keep their guest talking on safe subjects.

Subjects that did not concern her or her family.

Once all were seated, the kitchen lasses bore in platters of chopped meat moistened with broth, and set one between every three diners, as was Welsh custom in honor of the Trinity. A young boy brought around thin broad cakes of fresh lagana bread on which diners could heap a portion of the meat dish for eating.

Gazing at their guest, Helydd leaned toward Enid and whispered, “My, he’s a handsome one, isn’t he? And so pleasant spoken. Is it true you knew him back in Gwynedd?”

Enid nodded as she worried down a bite of her supper. Though she’d eaten nothing since a dawn bite of bread and cheese, she felt no great appetite. “Con’s mother was a distant kinswoman of my father. She died when the boy was very young, and nobody knew much about his father. Con used to coax the oxen for us until he got big enough to hire out as a soldier.”

He had been the only other youngster around her father’s prosperous maenol in the Vale of Conwy, for Enid’s two brothers were several years their senior. Since neither of the children had mothers to keep a sharp eye on them, they’d run wild as a pair of fallow deer yearlings.

In spite of herself, Enid found her gaze straying to Con’s animated features as he spoke with Father Thomas, watching with jealous interest for some reminder of the winsome boy she’d once loved so unwisely.

Sudden as a kingfisher, he glanced up and caught her eyes upon him. Though she scolded herself for her foolishness, Enid felt a scorching blush nettle her cheeks. She prayed the fire’s swiftly shifting shadows would mask it. The last thing she wanted was for Con ap Ifan to entertain a ridiculous notion she still harbored a fancy for him.

On second thought, there was one thing she wanted even less.

Con swilled another great mouthful of his cider and nodded in pretended interest at some long-winded tale of Father Thomas’s. At the same time he tried to fathom the queer sense of dissatisfaction that gnawed at him.

What reason on earth did he have to be disaffected? He’d been met with scrupulous hospitality from the moment he’d crossed the threshold of Glyneira. He’d eaten his fill of plain but nourishing fare, and the cider here tasted far superior to that of the last place he’d stayed. The company appeared good-natured and eager to be entertained.

So what was goading him like a burr in his breeches? Con asked himself. Surely it wasn’t childish pique at Enid for neglecting him? Or was it?

After all, they’d grown up almost like brother and sister for their first seventeen years, then hadn’t lain eyes on each other for the past dozen odd. Was it too much to expect she might set aside her chores to spend a little time with him? Especially since he’d be off in the morning and might never see her again.

Clearly he’d hoodwinked himself into imagining she’d worried about him after they parted, thirteen years ago. If she’d cared for him half as much as he’d worshipped her once upon a time, she’d have shown him more than the dutiful interest of any hostess in the comfort a chance-come guest.

If he hadn’t known better, he’d have suspected she was deliberately trying to avoid him, until she could send him on his way at the earliest opportunity. But what reason could Enid have for that?

“Were you ever to Jerusalem in your travels, Master Conwy?” The priest’s question shook Con from his musings.

“Twice or thrice.” He nodded and glanced from Father Thomas to Idwal, a big quiet fellow who followed their talk with a look of intense concentration. “Mostly I fought in the north, in the service of the Prince of Edessa.”

The priest drained his flagon of cider, probably to grease his tongue for another rambling tale about his uncle.

Partly to forestall that, and partly because he hadn’t been able to coax a straight answer out of Enid, Con said, “It can’t have been an easy winter here since the master met his end.”

Kiwal’s broad brow furrowed deeper, while the priest replied, “Not as bad as it might have been, perhaps.”

“How so, Father?” When he sensed the priest was reluctant to say more, Con reassured him. “I only ask because Enid and I are old friends and distant kin. She might be too proud to beg my help on her own account, but if there is anything she or her children need, I’d find the means to assist them.”

“You are a true Christian, sir!” Father Thomas clapped a beefy arm over Con’s shoulders. “As you can see, this is no prince’s llys, but folks aren’t starving either. The lady Enid has always been a careful manager and Howell’s sisters are both smart, industrious women. Though it was hard on them to watch Howell die slowly of his wounds, they had Our Lord’s own comfort knowing they’d done everything needful to ease him.”

Con replied with a thoughtful nod. The old priest had a point. What part of the hurt a body took from the loss of a loved one came from guilt over being unable to prevent or assuage the death?

“Everyone had time to grow used to the idea of Howell’s going before he went,” continued Father Thomas. “Not too much time, heaven be praised for mercy, but enough. Enough for him to make a good confession and die shriven. Who of us can ask for more?”

“You speak wisdom, Father.”

The priest cracked a broad grin and nodded around the room where folk were leaning back from their meal, rubbing their teeth with green hazel twigs to clean them, and talking quietly amongst themselves. “I’m wise enough to know it’s poor manners to keep the bard’s stories all for my own amusement when the rest of the company is eager to hear.”

He cast a look at Enid, who nodded. At that Father Thomas lurched to his feet and clapped his large fleshy hands for silence. “Attend you, now! We have the very great honor this evening of a proper bard among us. Conwy ap Ifan is kin to our lady Enid and a native of Gwynedd. He passed the winter months in the southern cantrevs and spring has lured him north to Powys. In his time, he’s ventured far abroad, travelling through the kingdoms of the Franks and as far away as the Holy Land. But I will sit down and hold my tongue now, so you may hear the rest from his own lips. The hall is yours, Master Con.”

The company cheered as Con hoisted his harp and left his seat at the high table to move nearer the fire.

“I thank you for that eloquent welcome, Father Thomas.” He pulled his fingertips over the harp strings in a quick run. “It’s true I have wandered far abroad in my travels, but it only taught me the wisdom of the old saying ‘God made Wales first, then, with the beauty he had leftover, he fashioned the rest of the world.’”

If that didn’t dispose the crowd in his favor, nothing would. Yet as he spoke the words, Con knew they were more than hollow flattery. These past weeks, as he’d reacquainted himself with the land he’d forsaken in his youth, it seemed as though a skilled but invisible hand plucked at the cords of his heart, making warm, resonant music such as he could only echo with his harp.

“Here’s a tune I often sang to myself in far-off places when I grew lonely for home.” Con plucked out the bittersweet melody he’d played so often. “Llywn Onn.” “The Ash Grove.”

“The grand Ash Grove Palace was home to a chieftain, who ruled as the lord of a handsome domain.”

Around him folks swayed to the music and began to hum haunting harmonies.

As he went on to sing of the chieftain’s beautiful daughter who had many rich suitors, no amount of will could keep Con’s gaze from flocking to Enid.

“She only had eyes for a pure-hearted peasant, which kindled the rage in her proud father’s chest…”

That hadn’t been the way of it, of course. Enid had been too dutiful a daughter and too practical a creature ever to brave her father’s displeasure by choosing a lowly plow-boy over the nephew of a prince.

“I’d rather die here at my true love’s side than live long in grief in the lonely Ash Grove.”

As the song wound to its beautiful, poignant conclusion, was it his foolish fancy, or some capricious trick of the firelight…? Or did a mist of tears turn Enid’s eyes into a pair of glittering dark amethysts?

What of it, good sense demanded, if a woman who’d been recently widowed got a little teary over a plaintive song? Only a fool would think “The Ash Grove” meant to her what it had long meant to him.

Besides, it was too early in the evening for sad songs. Time to lighten the mood.

“Here’s one for the children.” Con swept his gaze around the room, winking at each one in turn. “I hope they can help me sing it, for I always make a fearful muddle of the colors.”

“Where is the goat? It’s time for milking.” He cocked a hand to his ear and the young ones sang back to him, “Off among the craggy rocks the old goat is wandering. Goat white, white, white with her lip white, lip white, lip white…”

By the time they called the black, red and blue goats, everyone was laughing and clapping. Con followed with several more light ditties about robins and larks and the return of springtime. Then he recited the familiar story-poem about the children of Llyr being magically transformed into swans.

As he oiled his throat with a few more drops of cider and tuned his harp for more music, Con noticed Enid trying to usher her protesting children off to bed.

“Let them stay a while longer, why don’t you?” He added his own entreaty to theirs. “Remember when we were their age and the bard from Llyn came to your father’s hall? How vexed we were over being chased off to bed.”

Enid shot him a glare of purple menace that told him she remembered all too well. He’d had a grand idea they should crawl onto the roof and listen to the music that wafted up the chimney. It had all gone without a hitch until Enid had fallen asleep and rolled off the roof, knocking out a tooth and breaking her arm. He’d been able to scramble away and pretend innocence. Since Enid had vowed by all the Welsh saints that she’d been alone in her mischief, he’d escaped the skinning he probably deserved.

How many other wild schemes of his had she paid the price for over the years?

Before Con could ponder that question, Enid scoured up a grudging smile for her children. “Very well, then, you may bide a little longer. Only a wee while, though, mind? And only because the pitch of this roof is steeper than my father’s. You’d break your young necks, like as not.”

Myfanwy and Davy exchanged sidelong glances and mystified shrugs. Con understood, though. He winked at Enid and was rewarded with a reluctant twist of her lips.

“I’ll keep it brief,” he assured her.

“You do that.” If Enid meant to sound stern, she didn’t quite succeed. “It isn’t only the children who need their rest. Others have a full day’s work ahead of them tomorrow, and you have a long walk to wherever you’re headed.”

Wherever he was headed? To Hen Coed and Macsen ap Gryffith. Another step closer to that knighthood and his triumphant return to the Holy Land. Why did that prize not glitter as brightly as it had just a few hours ago?

Never one to dwell on unpleasant thoughts, Con pushed the question out of his mind.

“Here’s a song I learned in Antioch,” he told his audience, launching into an eerie wail of a melody.

That prompted the Glyneira people to ask him all sorts of questions about his time in the Holy Land. Without too much poetic embellishment, Con managed to hold them spellbound with tales of his adventures—the wonders, the opulence, the intrigue. When a wide yawn stretched his mouth, he realized he’d been talking far longer than the “wee while” he’d promised Enid.

He ventured a sheepish glance her way, only to find her looking as enthralled by his tales as the rest.

“I mind it’s past time to put the harp on the roof,” he said, meaning they should bring the festivities to an end. “Here’s a quiet tune to lull you all to sleep?”

As he played, folks fetched their brychans and found good spots among the reeds to stretch out for the night. Enid motioned her children away to their private chamber. Con wondered if this was the last glimpse he’d have of her before he headed off to Hen Coed at the cut of dawn.

After the last notes of the lullaby had faded into the night, some of the company responded with muted applause. Others murmured their approval of the night’s entertainment. Father Thomas bid Con an effusive farewell before wending his way home.

“Fine music,” declared Idwal, nodding his head slowly.

“Indeed it was,” agreed Gaynor, holding tight to her husband’s arm. “What a pity you have to be on your way so soon, Con ap Ifan. How grand it would be if you could stay and entertain at the wedding.”

Con flashed a regretful smile at Gaynor’s younger sister Helydd. “I wish I could oblige you. But the man who takes so fair a bride won’t need any songs or poetry from the likes of me to crown his joy of the day.”

After an instant’s bewilderment, the lady blushed. “Oh, I’m not to be the bride, Master Con. Once Enid and his lordship are married, I hope they can find me a—”

“Enid?” Con squeaked like a half-grown boy. Then Helydd’s other words sank in. “His lordship?”

“Aye.” Gaynor beamed with pride. “Macsen ap Gryffith, himself. He’s due to arrive in a few days’ time. Enid pretends it isn’t all settled, but we know better. I haven’t a doubt in the world but there’ll be a wedding ere his lordship departs Glyneira again.”

Well, well. Con bid Idwal and the women good-night, then rolled up in the thick, coarse-woven brychan he’d been given.

Why venture off to meet Lord Macsen if the border chief was coming here? Glyneira might be the perfect place for them to confer, more distant than Hen Coed from the prying eyes of King Stephen’s vassals at Falconbridge and Revelstone.

Con settled into sleep with a contented sigh. Now he and Enid would have plenty of time to warm over their old friendship—before she wed the border chief.

Somehow that thought threatened Con’s peaceful dreams.