Chapter Six #2
“Then you do not need my approval,” he said after a moment. “But you should know that my father has tried to tame her before.”
“How?”
“The same way you are.”
Christopher understood when he meant immediately. “A marriage?”
Gruffydd nodded. “She was extremely young,” he said. “Her husband was extremely old. He died before they had been married a year.”
Christopher wasn’t sure he liked the fact that Elle had been married before.
In fact, he wasn’t sure he liked the fact that she had concealed that from him.
She knew of his plans of an advantageous marriage and had every opportunity to tell him that she had been married before, yet she hadn’t, and he wondered why.
“How long ago was this?” he asked.
Gruffydd sighed, thinking back to that turbulent episode in his family’s life.
“She was betrothed when she was born,” he said.
“My father did not live much longer after that. When she had seen thirteen summers, she married a man who was a prince of Gwent, and the hope was that any children from the marriage would secure a permanent alliance between Gwent and Powys, but no children were born. Her husband told everyone that it was because Elle was barren, but I suspect that was not the case. The man had been married four times before he married my sister and only had one daughter out of all of those marriages. It was unfair of him to blame the problem on Elle.”
More information on something Christopher found disturbing.
He certainly didn’t want a barren wife for his heir, but Gruffydd seemed to think there was more to it.
He believed him, because it wasn’t as if the man was trying to dump his sister on the House of de Lohr.
Quite the opposite. Even though he didn’t like that she had been married before, he’d been ordered to make a marriage.
It wasn’t as if he had many choices at this point.
For the sake of peace, and an alliance with Powys, he was willing to overlook it.
“She was no more than a child when she married,” he said after a moment. “She is a woman now. A marriage to a man who is not old enough to be her grandfather will be different.”
Gruffydd shrugged. “Mayhap,” he said. “Mayhap not. But I should like to be clear in the fact that I do not think this is a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are trying to tame the wind, my lord. It cannot be done.”
Christopher thought that was a rather lyrical way to put it. “That is possible,” he said. “But the truth is that your sister is Welsh royalty. She and you are all that is left from the ruling house of Powys. You and your sister are quite valuable, as allies, as…”
“Commodities,” Gruffydd finished for him.
Christopher nodded faintly to concede the point. “Your sister cannot be allowed to continue as she has been,” he said. “The decision has been made to marry her to an earl, in fact. The Earl of Leominster.”
That didn’t mean anything to Gruffydd. All of the English warlords and their titles seemed alike to him. “Is he at least a good man with a heavy manner?” he asked.
Christopher chuckled. “He is the best man, and his manner his far heavier than your sister’s,” he said. “Have no fear—she will be in capable hands.”
Gruffydd shook his head. “I do not worry for her,” he said. “I worry for him.”
Christopher continued to snort. “I would not,” he said. “As I said, he is capable.”
Gruffydd thought it was all quite mad, but he didn’t protest. The reality was that his sister would cease to become his problem if she married, so in a sense, he was being rid of her, and that did not trouble him. Let her become some English earl’s problem.
But as for him…
“May I then return to the lady I am fond of and wed her?” he asked. “She is from Welsh nobility on her mother’s side. Her father is English. I can return to my post as garrison commander and maintain Brython as your ally.”
But Christopher shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “Brython will be garrisoned by my heir, Curtis. He is the Earl of Leominster.”
Gruffydd’s eyebrows rose when he realized what de Lohr was telling him. “You mean he will…?”
“Marry your sister, aye,” Christopher said. “You have other properties, do you not?”
Gruffydd was still not over the fact that his sister would be remaining at Brython with her new husband, who happened to be the earl’s son. That bit of news had him reeling, something he struggled not to show.
“I do have other properties,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “But you would leave Elle here, at Brython? In the shadow of her rebellion? Is that not dangerous?”
Christopher’s gaze lingered on him as he pondered what was an astute question.
But it could have been something else, too.
“I am attempting to deduce whether or not it is your jealousy speaking and not genuine concern,” he said truthfully.
“Brython is a jewel in the crown of the marches. It is very important and strategic. I realize it must be a blow to be told you are no longer the garrison commander, but you had your opportunity and you failed. I would see Brython in more capable hands.”
Rebuked, Gruffydd struggled with his humiliation. “It was genuine concern, my lord,” he said. “Yet you seem convinced that your son can manage my sister, so I will not say another word about it. But consider yourself warned.”
Christopher was pleased he’d managed to shut down Gruffydd’s protests, for they were becoming tiresome, even if they were understandable.
He was confident that Curtis could handle anything Elle decided to throw at him, so there was nothing left to discuss on the subject as far as he was concerned.
He simply wanted to get past it and move forward.
“Where else will you go?” he asked, changing the focus slightly. “What other properties do you have that would be suitable?”
Gruffydd realized he hadn’t finished his meal. He’d been so busy discussing his sister that the food was cooling before him. He reached for his wine.
“Tywyl Castle is about ten miles to the east, in the heart of my lands,” he said, then took a long swallow before continuing. “I was born there. It is the traditional home of my family.”
“Good,” Christopher said. “That is a better place for you, as the ruler of these lands. Brython is on the marches, on the edge, so let me keep it strong for you. Henry will be pleased that I have garrisoned it, and that will keep him peaceful when it comes to you and your properties.”
Gruffydd could see what he was driving at. “And a pleased Henry will not cause me any trouble.”
Christopher lifted his eyebrows to concede the point. “You understand the nature of kings.”
“I know that I am one, yet I do not command the thousands that Henry does,” he said before tipping more wine into his mouth.
“I do not command the numbers that Llywelyn does. He wants my lands, you know. He is not finished, no matter how you convince Elle that siding with Llywelyn is not a victory for the Welsh.”
Christopher sipped the last of his warmed wine. “I know that any onslaught by Llywelyn will be met by your English allies,” he said. “And I have more men than he does. Is that not enough?”
Gruffydd nodded, though there was defeat in his slumped shoulders. “It means a great deal, my lord,” he said. “That is why I am pleased to retire to Tywyl while your son controls Brython. He will serve it well, I am certain.”
The situation was working out just the way Christopher had hoped. He stood up, stiffly, with the intent of finding more wine, and the flap to his tent flew open. His senior sergeant, an older man with a bushy beard named Becker, was in the doorway.
“My lord,” Becker said. “We have a prisoner you should see.”
Christopher frowned. “Who is it?”
“She says that Gwenwynwyn was her uncle.”
Christopher looked straight at Gruffydd, who was on his feet at the news. “It must be Melusine, my lord,” he said. “She is my cousin, the only cousin I have. She has been living at Brython too, but I have not seen her since I was put in the vault.”
Christopher’s features took on an incredulous expression. “Another woman warrior?”
Gruffydd shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “She is… Well, she is—”
Screaming interrupted them as the woman in question appeared at the entry.
She was on her hands and knees, crying and carrying on, but neither Christopher nor Gruffydd could see anything around her that should terrify her so.
No one was harming her. She had no marks that they could see, no blood.
She was clad in the clothing of a servant, a rough and dirty woolen tunic and hose that had seen better days.
On her feet were shoes that were too large for her.
On her hands and knees, she wept hysterically.
Gruffydd was the first one to move toward her, reaching down to pick her up. “Get up, Melusine,” he said quietly. “No one is going to harm you.”
Melusine threw herself at him, clinging to him. “Gruffydd,” she sobbed. “Are you well?”
He peeled her away from him. “I am well,” he said. “Are you?”
She nodded unsteadily. “I am unharmed.”
Gruffydd frowned. “Then stop weeping,” he said. “You are making a fool of yourself in front of Lord Hereford.”
Like a magic pill, that request caused her to instantly quiet.
She looked at Gruffydd with big, watery eyes, wiping at her face with the back of her dirty hand and smearing dirt down her cheek.
Then she looked at Christopher as if the man were going to eat her, but he simply indicated a chair next to the remains of Gruffydd’s meal.
“Sit, my lady,” he said politely. “You are safe here, I promise.”
Melusine didn’t seem capable of releasing Gruffydd, so he had to walk her over to the chair and force her into it. Still, she clung to him, looking like a hunted animal.
“They found me,” she told Gruffydd. “I tried to hide, but they found me.”