A True and Perfect Knight (31 page)

Edward nodded. “And your point…”

“I thought you might wish proof of their worth before I suggest that you reconsider your policy about the Welsh.”

“You’ve sworn to protect them, haven’t you?”

“Aye.”

“
Oui.
” Speaking at that same moment, Gennie came forward, slipping her hand around Haven’s arm.

Edward cast Gennie a calculating glance. “Did your witch of a wife put you up to this?”

Gennie paled. What did Edward suspect?

Haven put his hand over Gennie’s. “Nay, sire. When I lay ill, my wife had no herbs with which to fight my fever. She sought out a Welsh wise woman, promising my protection should the beldam save my life.” Haven motioned Gwyneth forward. He placed a hand on the crone’s shoulder. “In gratitude, I swore protection for all those who would aid me in achieving the task that you set for me. I have never failed you, my liege. I would not do so now.”

Throughout this speech Edward’s gaze never left Gennie’s face. “And you, Lady Genvieve? Would you fail me?’

Gennie thought quickly. If she had to choose between Edward’s life and Haven’s or Thomas’s, she would cheerfully kill Edward herself. Yes, she would fail England’s king. Of a certainty, that was not what Edward wanted to hear.

“Well, woman?”

“I am my husband’s loyal subject in all things, sire.” Gennie held her breath.

Edward’s eyelids narrowed over his pupils. Then he threw his head back and gave a great roaring laugh. When he calmed, he wiped his eyes. “A very pretty answer, lady. A very pretty answer indeed. And I shall respond just as prettily to your husband’s request.” He looked at Haven. “1 will consider your suggestion that I rethink my policy for the Welsh.”

Gennie exhaled and turned to see her relief mirrored in the eyes of the watching folk. She beamed at them. “Has no one any work to do?’ Nodding, the Welsh left the great hall. Quiet murmurs ushered them out.

She turned back to the king. “Husband, I shall order our people to wait until you are done discussing business with the king, before they prepare the hall for tonight’s feast. Sire, if you will excuse me, I will see to it that your chamber is made comfortable.”

“By all means, Lady Genvieve.”

Gennie curtseyed and left, calling for Marie to take Thomas.

Moments later only Haven, Pwyll and King Edward remained in the great hall. Edward invited the two men to join him at the table.

“Liege, did my messenger reach you?”

“Aye, ’tis one of the reasons I left pursuit of Llewellyn in other hands and came south.”

“Did you bring a metallurgist with you?”

Edward glanced at Pwyll.

“’Twas Pwyll who discovered the ore.”

Edward nodded. “I’ve already had the ore tested. But I did not tell the metallurgist how it came to me.”

“Is it…”

“…silver?” The king nodded once more. “Yes.”

“I knew it.” Pwyll’s fist hit the table and startled the two older men. “It’s a pastime of mine,” he explained. “An engineer often becomes familiar with ores found while digging foundations and other excavations.”

Edward frowned the younger man to silence. “Does anyone else know?”

Haven did not hesitate. “Gennie knows.”

“You have gained much faith in your wife for such a newly married man.”

“With reason, sire.”

“I see.”

Haven wondered if the king’s noncommittal comment was cause for worry.

But Edward’s next words concerned him more. “I had reason to believe that a mine existed here. That is why I insisted you take charge of Two Hills Keep.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“’Twas only a rumor, passed on to me by the man who said that Daffydd would attack this place.”

“It seems your source was reliable.”

“Aye, he shall be properly rewarded, as shall you both.” Edward included Pwyll in his glance.

Haven waited.

“Haven, you have need of a permanent position and lands. This keep and the title Earl of Twynn are yours and your family’s from this day forth with two conditions. First, that you pay the crown half of all the silver mined here.”

“The crown needs more than half, liege.”

“Think you so? You must take the cost of mining and smelting the ore from the sale of the silver after you give the crown its share. What say you now?”

Haven acquiesced. “You are just as always.”

“I wouldn’t say always. But I thank you for your faith in me. And that is my second condition.”

“That I remain faithful?”

“Not just you. So long as the de Sessions family remains perfect in troth to the king of England, they shall hold these lands.”

“And I, my liege?” Pwyll asked.

Haven forestalled Edward’s answer. “Sire, I see workers massing at the doors, waiting for us to finish.”

“Let them come in. We can conclude our business while you show me the improvements Pwyll has made. Did I mention that I brought the first of the English families with me?”

“Nay, liege. You did not.”
’Tis too soon
, Haven thought,
we are not yet ready.

Chaos reigned in the kitchen. From the corner where she attempted to quell a battle between Rene and one Goody Brown, Englishwoman, Gennie watched disaster unfold.

At the huge fireplace a couple of young boys turned several spits of meat and fowl. A number of Welshwomen stood around a large table kneading dough, filling tarts and beating other mysterious concoctions in bowls. Some young girls sat by the only door plucking and cleaning fowl, effectively blocking entrance to Goody’s supporters and anyone else who felt a need to be in the kitchen. A man with a wicked-looking knife sliced loaves of bread into trenchers. The scooped-out middles of each loaf went into a copper-clad kettle used for making puddings and other sweets. Next to him, four more girls peeled and pared fruits of all varieties.

Gennie shook her head. If they had to feed the king and his minions for many days, starvation would be a certainty this winter. The few supplies they had would be gone in less than a week.

The resourceful Welsh had produced a small treasure of vegetables and fruit when they realized the king did not mean to eject them immediately. The English families, who had come with the king to populate Two Hills Keep, made their contribution too. That was what started the battle between Rene and Mistress Goody Brown.

While more than willing to accept the foods given by the English, the usually affable Rene was completely unwilling to allow any of the English into the kitchen.

“I will have no talentless beginners ruin the meal I prepare for
le rol
.”

At which point, Mistress Brown countered, “I been kneading bread and roasting quail since before your mother tupped the butcher.”

This insult was not to be born. Rene dipped his ladle into the sauce he had been stirring to cool and flung the liquid at Goody.

Goody gasped and returned fire with a fist full of dough grabbed off the nearby table.

It might have stopped there, but in drawing back her arm, Mistress Brown clipped the head of a woman who was whipping eggs to a froth. The bowl slipped from the woman’s hands and tipped, spilling the bubbly yellow liquid across the table and into every item being prepared there.

The woman tried in vain to capture the bowl, thus losing her balance. She fell backward, knocking the two boys away from the fire and the spits off their handles. Sparks flew, and people jumped every which way. Platters skidded. More liquids spilled. Screeches and yelps rolled in the air.

Suddenly all was still, save the stray feathers that floated like huge dust motes in the heated air. Standing in the doorway was the very friar who had heard Gennie’s confession and instructed her to wear the hair shirt. When he turned his blazing look on her, Gennie shivered.

“I see your sins have come back to roost, madame. You must have lacked dedication in your penance.”

How could he know? Gennie wondered.

“Hear now, you speak proper to milady.” This from Goody Brown, who eyed the begging priest with disgust. Sauce dripped from every appendage, and she looked like nothing so much as a huge, underdone apple dumpling.

“I will have respect for Lady Genvieve in my kitchen.” Rene echoed the Englishwoman’s sentiments, his dislike of friars being well known to Gennie and evidently superior to his mistrust of Goody Brown.

From the angry flush on the friar’s face, Gennie expected a rage of sermonizing. Contrary to expectation, the friar bowed to Rene and Goody Brown and said in dulcet tones, “I apologize. I meant no offense.”

“And so you should,” huffed Goody.

Rene merely sniffed.

The friar made an attempt at a conciliatory smile. The rather nauseating result fascinated Gennie.

“Come, children,” the holy man continued. “Let us put past mishaps aside and set to rights the bounty God has given us. My brothers and I will help.”

“
Non.
”

“Nay.”

But the protests of Rene and Goody alike went unheeded. For the friar, and six more like him, waded through a fallen bucket of feathers and began to help restore order.

Gennie watched horrified as the friars filched as much as they put to rights. In the flurry of activity that followed the priestly entrance into the kitchen, it was difficult to keep track of who put what where.

So Gennie resigned herself to the friars’ questionable assistance. She cautioned Rene not to object. “Some missing food is a small price to pay, and do we object, they will but remain longer and take more.”

Gennie began to think of their quick-fingered presence as a blessing, since the friars also achieved the unintended result of accord between Rene and Goody Brown.

“Milady,” Goody whispered, when the friars lingered overlong, “that one is about to lift the quail from the king’s platter. Else you find some way to make them leave, the king himself will go hungry this day.”

Gennie cast a glance at the shadows outside the kitchen door. “Be at ease, Mistress Brown. The chapel bell will ring evening prayers soon. Those sticky-fingered crows will have to leave then.”

True to her word, the bells rang out moments later, and like a flock of ravens set upon by hounds, the friars left.

Gennie and her cook surveyed the remaining damage. “Will you be able to feed us tonight, Rene.”

“
Oui
, milady. It will not be easy, though.”

“We shall pull through, milady. Just you wait and see.” Goody Brown dabbed away the remnants of the sauce from her face.

Rene hitched his apron. “Go you, Lady Genvieve. Mistress Brown and I have much work to do.”

Assured that peace, if not neatness, would now rule in the kitchen, Gennie took herself off to find her husband. Only he could help her solve her latest problem.

Chapter Twenty-Six

With Gennie beside him, Haven sat at the king’s right above the salt and surveyed the great hall with satisfaction. He knew how slim the resources were with which his wife had to work. He also knew that the English families had not adjusted well to the presence of the Welsh.

Yet Gennie accomplished the impossible. The walls were bare, but all evidence of construction was gone. Sturdy tables and benches had appeared to provide seating for both Edward’s household and their own. Servants brought wine and ale in abundance. Only one thing was missing: the food.

A short time ago, Gennie had come to him with a tale of a disaster in the kitchen. She begged that he find some way to delay the meal. Haven stood, and the room grew quiet. He hoped that his solution would satisfy all.

“Sire, respected guests. Our cook has prepared a very special repast tonight. However, to whet your appetites, we have arranged a wrestling match. When Cyril Glamorgan, one of my Welsh bowmen, questioned the fighting abilities of Englishmen in general, my squire sought the privilege of defending English honor. I granted my permission, as long as they delayed their contest until now, when all could witness the truth or falseness of Glamorgan’s claim that Englishmen could not defeat an enemy without Welsh arrows to clear the way first.”

At this announcement, the English in the hall rose up and hurled insults at the Welsh, who soon returned the discourtesy. Haven bellowed for silence. When both parties were again seated, he called the combatants into the room. “So that all may understand the victory conditions: These two men will fight until one or the other remains pinned at the shoulders for a count of five unless one of them should first cry mercy. Watley, Cyril, do either of you wish to concede victory to your opponent now?”

“Nay,” the men chorused.

“Very well, then. Let the match begin.”

Haven sat.

Edward leaned over to him. “Would you care to place a wager, Sir Haven?”

“Aye, but I cannot bet against my own squire.”

“Too bad; as an Englishman, I can hardly bet on the Welsh.”

“I am neither Welsh nor English, sire. If my husband will permit, I will bet on Cyril against Watley.”