Morgan the Rogue (2 page)

             
'Your daughter Morwenna.  She is almost fifteen now and you think of a marriage for her?'

             
'I have been asked for her in marriage by Dafydd ap Gwilym, steward in the household of the lordship of Mortimer, but I have refused my permission.  There has been too much change, too much unrest of late.  I would prefer my only daughter to marry into your household Glyn Dwr – then she cannot be used against us in the future.'

             
'In times like these thought should be given to any alliance,' Owain replied.  'We must make sure that we gain allies and a marriage is a good way of bringing about such ties.  I have plans for my own children.  But you will let me think on this, Hywell.  I have something in my mind that may serve both our purposes.'

             
Morwenna waited with bated breath for her kinsman to go on.  She wanted to know the name of the man to whom she was to be given, but she was disappointed.  The subject had been changed once more; the men were now talking of King Richard 11 and his efforts to raise support against Henry of Bolingbroke, who had roused his followers and was marching against the king.

             
Turning away from the small chamber where her father and Owain Glyn Dwr were talking privately, Morwenna found her way through the house to the gardens outside.  It was a house of goodly proportions and clearly the property of a man of some substance, though not as splendid as Glyn Dwr's moated manor house at Sycharth.  She had spent two pleasant weeks there the previous winter and knew it to be a comfortable house with a solid tiled roof and a chimney that miraculously did not smoke!  As at her father's house, there was a fishpond, an orchard and a dovecote, but there the similarity ended.  Her father's manor was small compared to either of Owain's estates, with far less land and revenues.

             
Morwenna wandered on in the warmth of the sunshine lost in thought, away from the house through the bustling courtyard where men worked at various trades or practised their skills in hand to hand fighting, through the orchard and the meadow.  She turned away from the threatening menace of the forest, where the wolves had once hunted in ravenous packs and the polecats still lurked, towards the river. Here the mountains loomed huge; their peaks a dark blue as they seemed to touch the sky and disappear into the clouds, and yet the sun had found its way through a sweet vale, dipping into the waters of the Dee and making it sparkle as it burbled and sang through deep banks.

             
Finding a dry spot on the bank, she sat down and bent over the water, scooping a little in her hand to drink; it tasted cool and crisp on her tongue and she splashed a few drops on her face and neck, wetting her wimple.  She removed it, revealing the dark gold of her heavy plaits that were bound about her head like a coronet.  She was wearing a surcoat of blue over a simple yellow tunic, her shoes of soft leather having pointed toes.  She was, though she was yet unaware of it, a pretty girl with the potential for great beauty.  She leaned back on her elbows, letting her head tip back as she sung softly to herself the songs she had heard at the Eisteddfod with her father, but was suddenly woken from her reverie by the sound of splashing and loud voices calling to one another.

             
Seeking out the source of the noise, which seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness of her idyll, she saw that two young men had dived into the river from the opposite bank.  A third man stood on the bank waiting for them and keeping watching over their horses.  She thought from his dress that he was a servant, but could not tell his identity or that of the men in the water.

             
But they were swimming towards her, racing each other and calling out excitedly in the way young men will, reminding Morwenna of her young brothers who sometimes swam in the lake near her home at Bala.  As they came nearer, she saw that their shoulders were naked and realised they must have removed much of their clothing before plunging into the water.  One of them had reached the bank a short distance from where she was sitting.  He had not seen her because of the reed bed that partially obscured her and them.

             
She had a clear view of the man, who hauled himself from the river and stood shaking his long hair like a hound, the droplets sparkling in the sunshine as they flew around him.  He was completely naked, his strong, muscled body open to her curious gaze as he stood laughing at his friend, clearly unashamed of his unclothed state and pleased to have won his race.

             
He was beautiful!  Morwenna drank in the sight of his power and grace, the colour of his skin seeming to indicate that this was not the first time it had been exposed to the elements, gleaming wetly like pale copper in the sun's rays.  She could not draw her eyes away for she had never seen a man thus, nor such a well formed man at any time.  And then his friend shouted a warning, pointing in her direction from where he trod water in mid river, and the young god on the bank turned his head to look at her.

             
Colour flooded Morwenna's cheeks as she realised that she had been caught staring at him.  For a moment he seemed startled, then he threw back his head and laughed, turning deliberately so that now she saw him from the front and became aware of his maleness.  Where before she had seen him as something distant and strangely beautiful like some mythical figure of ancient lore, now she became very much aware of him as a man.  Fear and shame swept over her in a great wave, and jumping to her feet she snatched up her wimple, fleeing up the bank towards the path that led towards the meadow and her kinsman's house.

             
His laughter echoed behind her adding to her confusion and distress.  What had she been thinking of?  She ought to have turned her eyes away, to have made her presence known sooner, before he came out of the water, or left immediately she heard them.  Her behaviour had been immodest!  He would think her a wanton.

             
Her cheeks were hot and she was ashamed of herself.  She ought never to have stared at him in that brazen way!  Yet his body had been beautiful and had fascinated her, for she had never seen a naked man before, though she had occasionally helped Gwenny to bathe her brothers.  They were but boys of five and seven years of age, and Morwenna had stood in some part as a mother to them after Maud Gethin died of birthing fever.  Her fourth child had died with her and was buried in the churchyard at Gethin.  As yet Hywell Gethin had not taken another woman to wife.

             
Morwenna's mother had brought the small manor at Oswestry to her husband on her marriage.  It had revenues of no more than ten gold nobles a year and was too close to the English borders to please her father.  He had never spent much time there and Morwenna had been told that it was to be her marriage portion.  The manors at Bala and Gethin were far more important and would pass to Dafydd and Gwilym on their father's death.

             
Morwenna's confusion gradually calmed as she felt safer on her kinsman's land.  The stranger would not follow her here, nor was she likely to see him again.  She did not think him one of Glyn Dwr's men, for there had been a wild bold look about him that would have made her notice him before this had she seen him about the house or lands.

             
She began to smile as she recalled the incident with a cooler mind.  It was not so very terrible after all – and he had been beautiful.  She hoped that the man her father chose for her would be young and handsome.  The steward who had offered for her was a man of her father's age, but soft in the service of his lord with a great belly that shook when he laughed.  Morwenna had been pleased when her father refused him.

             
Escaping to the tiny room in the tower that had been provided for her use, Morwenna discovered Gwenny there shaking out her second-best gown.  She looked up as the girl entered and smiled, then shook her head as she saw the discarded wimple clutched carelessly in her hand.

             
'Your poor mother would turn in her grave,' she muttered darkly.  'What were you thinking of, sweeting?  Your hair has shaken free of its pins.  Such a state to be in!  And the lord of Glyndyfrdwy asking for you half an hour gone.  Where have you been?'

             
'I went for a walk to the river.  It was pleasant there in the sun.  I took my wimple off because it was so warm.'

             
'Well, now you must put it on again, but first let me tidy your hair – and you should put on this clean gown.  The tunic you are wearing has become stained; it has mud on the hem.  It must have been muddy by the river.'

             
'Mayhap.  I did not notice.'

             
Morwenna turned a deaf ear to the old woman's scolding.  Gwenny had been Maud Gethin's nurse, coming with her from her home in the Marches.  Maud's grandmother had been an Englishwoman, something Hywell had resented.  He had no love of the English, though he had loved his beautiful wife.

             
Dressed in her second- best gown of white with a girdle of gold threads and hanging sleeves embroidered with gold beads, Morwenna went back down the spiral stone steps to the hall below.  Her father and Owain Glyn Dwr were standing together by the raised dais at the far end, and as she hesitated to approach, her father called to her.

             
'Come, Morwenna, there is no need to be shy.  Glyn Dwr is waiting.'

             
Morwenna felt the eyes of her kinsman on her as she walked slowly, gracefully, towards them, making a small but reverent curtsey as she had been taught.  She smiled shyly at him as his eyes continued to study her before giving a nod of approval.

             
'You have reason to be proud of your daughter, Hywell,' he said in his deep, pleasant voice.  He was a bearded man dressed in a long tunic similar to that her father wore but edged with heavy braid.  At his waist he wore a belt and sheath of tooled leather, the handle of the dagger of carved bronze, but there was little else to show that he was possibly the wealthiest man in Wales.  At least, the wealthiest Welshman in Wales, Morwenna corrected her thoughts.  There were many English lords with vast revenues from Welsh estates – lands that brought in perhaps as much as three thousand gold nobles or more a year.  These lands had been stolen long ago from their rightful owners and were a cause of festering resentment in the minds of those who believed themselves dispossessed.  'You are comely, my lady.  Your husband will be a fortunate man.'

             
'Am I to be married soon, my lord?'  As a child Morwenna had called her kinsman Owain but she thought it might seem impertinent now that he was the true prince of Wales – at least he would be once his claim had been established.

             
'The matter is under discussion,' her father told her with a slight frown.  The wench was perhaps over bold for want of a mother's care, and he knew he had spoiled her for she reminded him of the woman he had loved too well.  'I have asked Owain to arrange it and this he will do in the fullness of time.'

             
'Morwenna is impatient to know her fate,' Owain said and smiled.  'We must forgive her.  Nothing is certain yet but I believe I shall know soon.  I have sent word to…' He was interrupted by his steward who came hurrying up to him, whispering something close to his ear.  'Ah, that is good news, Iolo.  I thank you.  Pray tell Morgan Gruffudd that I will speak to him privately and take him to my chamber.'

'There is another young man with him – one Rhys Llewelyn of Powys.  He is a second cousin of Morgan Gruffudd on his father's side and has come to offer his services to you, my lord.

             
'Then I shall see them together.  Pray take them to my chamber and stay with them until I come.'  Owain frowned as his steward departed, then turned to Morwenna's father.  'A small matter I must attend without delay.  I believe I may have news for you soon, Hywell.'

             
He inclined his head to Morwenna and followed in the wake of his steward.  Hywell looked at his daughter, eyes narrowed in thought.

             
'You must not plague Owain, girl.  The details of your marriage are of slight importance and he has weightier matters on his mind.'

             
'Yes, Father.'  Morwenna gave him a dutiful look, knowing that he had gone to considerable trouble already on her behalf.  'I am grateful that the lord Glyn Dwr has agreed to give my marriage some thought.'

             
Her father gave her a suspicious glance, for she was not normally so meek.  'You have not been listening at doors, daughter?'

             
'No, Father,' she denied, a faint flush in her cheeks.  'At least, I heard very little for I turned away almost at once.'

             
'Whatever you have heard is secret.  Do you understand me, Morwenna?'

             
'Yes, Father.  I would never do anything to injure Owain.  You must know that?'

             
'Yes, I do,' he agreed.  'But a still tongue keeps a wise head in such times.'

             
'I shall not forget.'

             
'Go away and amuse yourself with your needlework,' Hywell told her gruffly.  'We shall not sup for some hours yet and I shall come for you myself when the hour is nigh.  If there are strangers here it is best that you remain in your chamber until then.'