Chapter 3
Worcester, England
The autumn wind whistled through the wooden shutters, sending a bitter chill deep into the heart of the Bishop of Worcester’s castle. Gwen turned on her back and yanked the coverlets up to her chin.
King Edward’s household had been lodged in the drafty old keep for a fortnight, awaiting the wedding of Prince Llywelyn to the King’s cousin, Lady Elinor de Montfort.
Gwen had not seen her father since that day at Rhuddlan. It was Einion—sweet old Einion as usual—who had explained why she was to be a hostage.
She’d been frightened to death at first, wildly recalling the tales of her grandfather’s confinement as a hostage of King John.
Though King Edward was well reputed to have fits of the Plantagenet temper, it was not to the extent of mad King John, and she realized that her father would never put her in danger.
She would be brave, and she would make the greatest man in all the world proud to claim her as his daughter.
She had preferred to stay in her rooms, away from the court as often as possible. Windsor overflowed with the English. It mattered not at all that she was a princess. In their eyes, she was a savage, a whore, simply because she came from a land they did not understand.
She thought of the knight called Richard. He represented all she despised, but she could not forget him. Night after night, he haunted her dreams, as real to her as he had been almost a year ago in the stable of Rhuddlan castle.
It was annoying really. He was an arrogant English knight, not at all fit for a princess.
But she had felt so awkward beside him, like she was the servant he’d mistook her for and he was a prince. He was so handsome, and when he’d held her close, she’d thought her heart would come out of her chest.
She’d hoped to see him again in the party of knights who escorted her and the other prisoners to England. Then she’d looked for him at court. But he was gone, as though the stolen moments in the stable had been a figment of her imagination.
Her dreams were strange. Always, a fierce hawk perched upon his arm, its plumage unusual, so dark as to be almost black. Crimson jesses bound its feet and two leashes were attached to it. One dangled free while the other was gripped in the powerful jaws of a golden lion.
Gwen sighed. Why did she let herself think of him?
She was going to marry Rhys ap Gawain. They had pledged long ago to marry each other when they grew up. Gwen toyed with the edge of the coverlet. They were grown up now! She was sixteen and Rhys was nineteen.
Would he want to get married as soon as she returned?
The thought was a little unsettling. They’d been friends for as long as Gwen could remember. When she was four and he was seven, he’d carried her around on his back, pretending to be her steed.
They’d spent long hours together; climbing trees, exploring the forest, searching caves for King Arthur’s treasure.
They’d swam in crystal streams and raced their ponies along the valley floor, they’d fought mock battles with longbows and swords, and planted frogs in the serving women’s beds.
During all the laughter and childish pranks, they had pledged to be friends forever.
It was only natural they marry one day so they could stay together.
But, when she turned fifteen and he was seventeen, they’d realized you didn’t marry to be friends.
Rhys had taken her hunting that day. They didn’t catch anything because neither of them seemed to have their attention focused on anything but each other. Finally, Rhys had thrown down his longbow and kissed her.
Gwen touched her lips. It had been brief, just a feather-light touch, but everything between them changed. No longer were they just two friends doing the things they’d always done. They were aware of each other on a new level of being, one that was disturbing and exciting all at once.
Gwen never had a chance to find out where that new feeling would have taken them. The war had come and Rhys had gone to fight. Then she was given as a hostage.
And now her dreams were crowded with the image of a tall dark man with eyes of purest silver, a man whose touch had ignited more in its simplicity than ever Rhys’s kiss did.
The door to her chamber opened to admit a petite woman with long blonde hair and sparkling eyes.
“Gwen! How is it that you are still abed at this hour?” Elinor asked, skipping to the bed.
She threw off the cloak she wore over her chemise and darted beneath the covers. “Ooh, ’tis cold in this old castle!”
“’Tis too nasty to get up just yet,” Gwen replied, snuggling next to her friend.
“Aye, but I am too excited to sleep any longer! I dared not hope that Edward would ever allow me to marry your father.” Elinor sighed and put an arm around Gwen. “Tell me I am not dreaming.”
“’Tis not a dream. Today you and I are hostages no longer. We will go home to Wales.”
“I would have been there two years ago if Edward had not captured my ship. Jesú, I am too old to be a bride!”
“Five and twenty is not so old. Besides, that is half the age of my father. ’Tis perfect.”
Elinor smiled and kissed her on the forehead.
“You are such a practical girl. You should be married by now.
I would have been married when I was your age if my father had not rebelled against King Henry.
Once Papa was killed, there was naught for us to do but flee to France.
Poor Llywelyn had no choice but to break the betrothal contract.
“Thirteen long years I have waited. I know Llywelyn only sent for me to irritate Edward, but I am thankful anyway. My father did what he thought was right and he paid for it. But ’twas unfair that I had to pay too.”
“It seems to be the English way,” Gwen said, twisting a lock of hair around her finger.
Elinor laid her cheek on Gwen’s head. “I am sorry. I forgot. We have both been paying for our fathers’ defiance to the English crown.”
Gwen took a deep breath. “’Tis over now, Elinor. I only want to go home and never leave again.”
“I am afraid, Gwen. What if Llywelyn does not like me? We’ve been exchanging letters for years but—but we have met only once and it was so brief—and supervised by Edward.”
Gwen pushed away and turned to face the other woman. She was about to make a jest but changed her mind when she saw the apprehension painted on Elinor’s pretty face. “Do not worry. He will love you, just as I do. You are kind and fair. He will not be able to do otherwise.”
“But what if he desires someone younger? What if he takes a mistress?”
“He cannot! You will live by our customs and if you object to a mistress, he cannot take one. Welshwomen are not chattel!”
Elinor caught a blonde curl in her hand, examining it carefully.
“’Tis lucky you are to be Welsh, Gwen. Mama always told me that I would have little, if any, control over the man I married.
I must be ever at my lord’s beck and call, ready to entertain him at a moment’s notice.
I would be his chatelaine and woe if I did anything wrong!
Of course she was only preparing me for the worst. She did not object when Papa chose Llywelyn.
I wonder if he knew Welshmen were different? ”
Gwen leaned back and sighed. “Thank God a Welshwoman may choose her own husband. I would not want to be forced to marry someone I did not like.”
“Aye... but come now, let us not be solemn on my wedding day! Get up, lazy bones, and help me prepare!”
Elinor jumped from the bed, giggling. Gwen shot her a look and slowly peeled back the covers.
“I told you all would be well,” Edward said, tipping back the cup of wine he held. “Dafydd accepted without complaint the lands I gave him in Cheshire in lieu of a crown, and Llywelyn has been reasonably agreeable.”
Richard swirled the liquid in his goblet, staring at the red whirlpool he created. He stifled a yawn. He’d ridden in late last night and his current mistress, Lady Anne Ashford, had kept him awake well past midnight.
Since Llywelyn’s surrender at Rhuddlan, the Welsh people had quietly settled beneath the English yoke.
There were still border raids—there would always be border raids—but all across Wales, Welshmen presented themselves to English bailiffs and castellans to try their cases and lodge their complaints according to English law.
They chaffed under the yoke, but they did not complain... yet.
Richard raised his gaze to Edward. “I still do not trust Dafydd. Better to have given him to Llywelyn to hang than treat him like an English lord.”
Edward laughed. “All Dafydd ever wanted was wealth and prestige. He couldn’t have cared less about actually ruling Wales.
Now that he has his land and money—and an English wife—he’ll settle down and plague Llywelyn no more.
” Edward took another drink. “Indeed, I invited him to come to this wedding I am throwing for Llywelyn and my cousin, but he begged to be excused.”
Richard hid his surprise. “’Tis just as well. I doubt Llywelyn would want his Judas here.”
“Since when do you care what Llywelyn wants?”
Richard shrugged. “I don’t, but I still cannot figure why you summoned me to attend either.”
“’Tis simple enough. You are my closest advisor, and I need your counsel.” Edward smoothed his hand over the orange velvet of his surcoat. “You know that Llywelyn and our lord of Powys have applied to me to settle a dispute over the ownership of Arwystli?”
Richard nodded. “By the Treaty of Aberconwy, disputes arising over lands in Wales are to be settled according to Welsh law. However,” he said, “it doesn’t benefit England to allow Llywelyn’s judges to rule in his favor since Arwystli borders southern Gwynedd and is strategically important to her defense. ”
“Precisely. ’Twould be much better served in Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn’s hands. ’Tis why I am setting up a special commission to rule whether ’twill be tried according to Welsh or English law.”