A Memory of Love (44 page)

“Aye,” Rafe said, not in the least offended.

“And she loves you?”

“Aye,” his cousin drawled. “Do not fret yourself wondering about all that has happened between us, Edward. Kate is the perfect wife for you, and Rhonwyn is the perfect wife for me. What came before doesn't matter. Let us both be content with what we have, and thank God.”

T
hey had been wed a year, and they celebrated the occasion on Lammastide as the early harvest began. It had been a good year, and the manor prospered as it never before had.

“You are good luck for Ardley,” Rafe told his wife.

“The weather has been particularly favorable this summer,” the more practical Rhonwyn said with a smile.

The grain was reaped and stored in the new stone granary. The apples and the pears were gathered. Cider was made from some of the fruit. The rest was stored in a cool stone cellar. Like the good chatelaine she was, Rhonwyn sat with the female serfs on the late summer days picking straw and other bits of dirt from the wool that had been sheared from the sheep earlier in the summer. It would have to be washed before it was carded, and then spun into cloth. It was a time-consuming labor, but it allowed her to get to know the women on the manor, and it permitted them to know her. It was soon decided that the master's wife was not just a pretty face, but a hard worker with no fancy pretentions. This decision having been made, the women were Rhonwyn's own from that moment on. No matter she played with weapons or was Welsh, she was a good lady.

The world about them seemed peaceful enough. They had had no visitors since Glynn had come earlier in summer to warn them of ap Gruffydd's disobedience and that his enemies were plotting with the English against him. King Henry had died the previous November, and King Edward, trusting in his mother's ability to maintain order in England, was slowly wending his way back there. He was not expected to return before next year, but when he came, he would exert his authority over Prince Llywelyn and the Welsh, Rhonwyn knew. But perhaps, she thought, her father just pressed the English while the the king was out of the country. Surely ap Gruffydd was wise enough to know that when Edward returned, he must give sway to the man to whom he had pledged his fealty. It was his duty and the honorable thing to do. Duty and honor were something that Rhonwyn knew her father understood.

September passed, and then October. Rhonwyn loved the autumn. It had always been her favorite time of year. Now she and Rafe spent the daylight hours each day out hunting with their men as they prepared for the long winter to come. The deer were wonderfully fat that year, and soon the winter's supply of meat was more than ample. Although Rafe would see his people were fed during the cold months, he still allowed them to glean in the fields, hunt for rabbits twice a month in his woods, and fish in his streams one day a week. He was a generous master, and his people were loyal to him because of it.

It was Enit who noticed that her mistress's link with the moon had not been broken now in seven weeks. She had also noticed that Rhonwyn's appetite was peckish. “Lady,” she said one morning as the two women were in the garderobe going over Rhonwyn's gowns to see what needed mending, “I think you may be with child. You have had no show of blood in many weeks now, and your food does not seem to agree with you. These are all signs of a breeding woman; I know this from my mother.”

“Is it possible?” Rhonwyn wondered aloud.

“There is a midwife on the manor, lady. She is Maybel, the miller's wife. Perhaps you should go and see her.”

“We'll go today, and you will come with me,” Rhonwyn said. “If I am seen going alone, there will be gossip.”

“There will be gossip anyway,” Enit replied dryly, “but no matter. If you are with child, all will be joyous for you and the master.”

They went to visit the miller's wife. She took one look at her mistress and nodded, saying, “Aye, you are with child, lady. God be praised!” Then she beamed a sweet smile at them.

“How can you tell by just looking at me?” Rhonwyn demanded. Surely there was more to it than that.

“Why, I can see it in your eyes, my lady,” the miller's wife said. “And in your face. It glows with an inner radiance that only a breeding woman has. Still, I will listen to your symptoms.”

“She ain't had a show of blood in seven and a half weeks now, and her food don't agree, even her favorite blankmanger,” Enit said before her mistress might even open her mouth.

“Breasts tender?” Maybel asked bluntly.

Rhonwyn nodded.

“Belly feels swollen, but don't look it?”

“Oh, yes!” Rhonwyn said.

“Last show of blood?”

“Last week in August,” Enit spoke up again.

“The child will be born in the beginning of June,”

Maybel pronounced, “and I will be here to deliver it for you, my lady. You need have no fears, for you are a healthy lass, but no galloping about the countryside from now on. A nice gentle walk or the cart for you, my lady,
and
no more battling with your sword with those two Welshmen of yours until after the birth. What if you had an accident, my lady?”

“I am too skilled for accidents,” Rhonwyn said proudly.

“I shall tell the master,” Maybel replied calmly.

“Oh, very well,” Rhonwyn muttered irritably.

Both Maybel and Enit hid a smile.

“Not a word of this until I have told Rafe,” Rhonwyn told them both. “I don't want it all over the manor until he knows. He will want time to crow and swagger,” she chuckled, and her two companions laughed heartily, for they fully understood that their lord would behave as if he were the first man to father a child on his wife.

Wrapping her cloak about her, Rhonwyn left Enit and Maybel and walked out across the meadow. The sun was shining today, but the air was cool, the trees bereft of their leaves.
A baby.
Within her a new life was growing at this very moment as she walked. Was it a son she carried or a daughter?
A baby.
They were going to have a baby, and it had happened so quickly. She had ceased taking her secret brew only a few months ago.
A baby!
A new life to nurture. But what did she know about being a mother? And would what happened to her mother happen to her? Would she die in childbirth? Nay! She shook the frightening thought off. Vala had birthed both her daughter and her son easily. It had only been with that last child she had suffered, but then she had been so frightened that it was the child of her rape and not ap Gruffydd's. And in retrospect, Rhonwyn was never certain that her mother hadn't, in a moment of pure madness, tried to force that last child from her womb before its time and in doing so, caused her own demise.

I will pray, she thought. And I will ask my aunt to pray along with her entire abbey. Their prayers will surely keep me safe.
A baby.
Rafe and I are having a baby!
Rafe!
She had to find her husband and tell him this marvelous news before he heard it elsewhere, for Rhonwyn had no doubt that the entire manor would know before long. Turning, she ran back across the meadow, the sheep scattering before her, her cloak flying in the breeze. “Rafe! Rafe!
Rafe!
”

He heard his name being called. Called with great urgency. It was Rhonwyn's voice! My God! Was it the Welsh? He dashed from the stables where he had been discussing several matters with the leathersmith and saw her racing toward him. He caught her in his arms, looking anxiously into her face. “What is it, Rhonwyn?”

“I am with child!”
she cried, and then burst into tears.

His arms tightened about her. A huge, delighted grin split his handsome face. “
A baby?
We are having a baby, wife?”

She nodded, sniffling happily. “Aye, husband, we are.”

“Since I took you for my wife,” he said, “I did not think I could be any happier, but you have proved me wrong, Rhonwyn. My heart is so full that it is in danger of bursting with the joy your news has given me. How I love you, Rhonwyn, my wife.
How I love you!
” He kissed her hard upon the lips, and then kissed away the tears on her cheeks.

“But what if it is a girl and not a son?” she fretted.

“We shall call her Anghard, and she will look just like her beautiful mother,” he replied gallantly. “I don't care if it's a girl, wife. My two bastards are daughters. When they are grown, they shall serve their half sister, eh?”

“You would give a daughter a Welsh name?” She was surprised.

“Her mother is a Welsh princess,” he replied.

“Her mother was raised up in a fortress of men and treated no differently than any young lad. Princess indeed!” Rhonwyn laughed. Her palms rested flat against his chest. “I am nought but a simple lass,” she told him teasingly.

He smiled down at her, his silver blue eyes warm with his love. “Nay, dearling, you are no simple lass, and well you know it, but I love you nonetheless. Now, when is this child of ours due?”

“Maybel says the beginning of June,” Rhonwyn told him.

“No more swordplay with Oth and Dewi, wife,” he said sternly.

“Yes, my lord,” she replied.

“And no more hunting until after the child is born,” he continued.

“Yes, my lord.”

“I'm glad to see that being with child has at last rendered you a sensible woman,” he mocked her, then ducked as she pulled away from him and hit his shoulder with her fist.

“I have always been sensible,” she said indignantly.

Rafe de Beaulie laughed heartily and happily, taking the little hand that assaulted him and kissing it. He was going to have a legitimate heir at last! “You, Rhonwyn my wife, are wonderful!” he told her with another smile, and then picked her up and carried her to the house while she laughed.

He had never lived with a breeding woman, and the experience was certainly unique, to say the least. Rhonwyn at first raced between great euphoria, when everything was simply perfect, and deep sorrow, when she would, for no visible reason, weep great sobs and tears. The tiniest thing could set her off, and it was usually when they made love, for Maybel had explained how they might without injuring the child. But most times she would shed tears as he entered her ripening body—tears of happiness, she always assured him, but it was extremely unnerving.

Finally in January she became peaceful and serene. Her breasts and her belly swelled with the evidence of the new life she was carrying and would nurture come the summer. She loved to have him stroke her expanding belly with his hands, for it seemed to soothe her greatly. He rubbed her back and elicited purrs of contentment. Her breasts, however, were so sensitive that she could not bear to have them touched for too long a time. It frustrated him, for he loved those sweet orbs, but he respected her wishes. A breeding woman must be catered to, his sister assured him, and to his surprise, his brother-in-law agreed.

There had been no deep snow at Candlemas, and so Kate and Edward had come for a visit. Almost at once the two women seated themselves by the fire, talking and laughing together.

Edward smiled a superior smile. “They get like that when they are with child,” he said. “Congratulations. I did not think you would get a child on her, Rafe.”

“She is not the woman you were wed to, cousin,” Rafe replied. “Her caliph taught her to revel in and appreciate passion.”

“How can you bear that another man knew her?” Edward demanded in a tight voice.

“It is as if she were a widow,” Rafe responded. “Why are you so angry with her, Edward? She was faithful to you, and she is faithful to me. What more can a man want?”

“She was not faithful to me,” Edward de Beaulie said angrily. “She lay with this infidel and was shameless in admitting it.”

“She was a captive, Edward. Would you have had her die rather than yield herself to this other man? You gave her up without even knowing if she were really dead. Within two months of her disappearance you wrote and asked to have Kate for your wife. At least Rhonwyn was faithful in her heart to you, Edward. You were certainly not faithful in your heart to her. You hurried home, wed my sister, and got her with child as quickly as you could. Rhonwyn plotted to avoid giving the caliph a child and planned her escape so she might return to you. Do not be angry because you lost the opportunity to know what she is really like. I shall tell you, cousin. She is warm and passionate and loving to me …
as my sister is to you
.”

The spring finally came, and with it Rhonwyn's moods turned again. This time she was waspish and shrewish as her body swelled, and it became difficult to both sit and walk.

“I am no better than an old sow,” she grumbled.

“You are beautiful,” he assured her.

“A beautiful fat sow about to litter,” she groused.

“It will be all right, wife,” he tried to soothe her.

She glared at him pityingly. “What on earth can a man know about having a baby inside of him, squirming and kicking? I can barely stand. I want to pee constantly. My navel has turned itself inside out, and you think it's going to be all right, Rafe? That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard any man say!”