“Here is a wedding gift to you from Sir
Edouard,” he told her. “Put it on.”
“Where did he find it?” Branwen asked. The
gown was of blue silk with gold trim, and she could see it was much
too large for her small frame. “There was nothing like this in
Afoncaer, I’m sure.”
“It’s probably booty from some other fortress
he has taken,” Griffin said carelessly.
“Right off some poor woman’s body, most
likely,” Branwen said in disgust. “I won’t wear it.”
“You will, or I’ll see you married in your
shift with all your bruises showing. And you will have bruises
after I’ve finished with you.” Griffin’s words reminded her just
how violent he could be. Knowing she had no choice but to obey him,
Branwen picked
up the gown with unwilling fingers.
“Very well,” she whispered. “Please leave me
in private while I dress.”
“I want no tricks from you.” Griffin eyed the
single tiny window with unease. “There is no way you can possibly
escape your fate. If you try, you will be severely punished.”
When he had closed the bedroom door, Branwen
put on the dress, turning up the overly long sleeves until her
hands were visible. The too-loose waist she girded with her own
belt. Attached to the belt she wore her ornately decorated small
dagger. Until today she had used it only for cutting meat at table,
but now she was prepared to use it for its other purpose,
self-defense. She had no comb, so she used her fingers to try to
bring some order to her dark curls.
While she made her preparations she
considered her situation and tried to think of some way to
alleviate it. She understood why Sir Edouard wanted to marry her.
She knew her own value. She was a noblewoman, a minor one, it was
true, but a Welsh noblewoman nonetheless, and through her Sir
Edouard would have a legitimate claim to her grandfather’s and her
father’s estates. Once they were wed and the marriage was
consummated, Sir Edouard could take her grandfather’s place as
guardian of the road into Wales. Thanks to his wife’s birthright,
Edouard would soon become both rich and powerful. Branwen believed
her traitorous brother Griffin would never be allowed to rule at
Afoncaer, whatever Sir Edouard had promised him. Griffin would
probably be killed once he was no longer needed, for while he lived
he was a threat to Sir Edouard’s own claim. She wondered how it was
that he could not see that for himself.
Griffin banged on the door, calling through
it that the hour for the wedding was at hand. She tried one last
time to argue with him, begging him for their dead father’s sake
not to do this to her, telling him he owed her protection and ought
to be ashamed of himself. He made no answer. He only took her arm
and dragged her roughly into the chapel.
Branwen felt as though she was walking
through a nightmare. Sir Edouard’s men and their squires were all
there, crowding around the altar of the chapel that was too small
to hold them comfortably. Griffin stood near her, looking smug. And
there was the bridegroom. He was tall, dark, and hard looking, with
flinty grey eyes that were cold as the northern seas in winter. He
looked her up and down without a flicker of emotion. Branwen’s
throat went dry.
Father Conan took his place at the altar.
Branwen knew the elderly priest well enough to tell he was greatly
offended because the Normans had all worn their swords into the
chapel in defiance of accepted custom. He looked at the weapons
with barely concealed anger, but the Normans apparently had no
intention of disarming.
“Wait,” Branwen said before Father Conan
could speak. “I have something to say.”
She heard a muttered exclamation of annoyance
from Sir Edouard, who had moved to stand beside her at the altar,
but he made no effort to stop her. She saw Griffin frowning at her.
She prayed she would not forget the Latin her cousin Rhys had
taught her. She hoped Sir Edouard could understand Latin. Enough,
at any rate, to comprehend her meaning. She doubted he would
understand if she spoke Welsh.
“By our ancient laws,” Branwen said, her
voice sounding thin and shaky, “I have the right to refuse to marry
any man I do not want. I will not wed the man who killed my family.
I will not say the necessary words, nor will I sign the
contract.”
“But you will, my lady.” She had scarcely
blinked before Sir Edouard had drawn his sword and was threatening
her with it.
“Speak the words,” he ordered, the point of
his sword aimed at her throat. “Welsh law means nothing at Afoncaer
any more. You are under my rule now.”
She could not speak. She was too terrified to
make a sound. Suddenly she realized if he killed her he could not
marry her. That thought gave her the courage to face him boldly,
not caring what the outcome was, for if she were dead he could not
force her into his bed.
“Put your sword away. This is God’s house,”
Father Conan commanded. “Sir Edouard, leave this innocent maiden
alone. You hold Afoncaer by your own strength. Let that be enough.
And you, Griffin, if you persist in forcing this unnatural
marriage, you will surely suffer the fires of Hell for what you do
to your sister.”
“Welsh traitor!” Sir Edouard now pointed his
weapon at Father Conan, who looked calmly back at him.
“Would you make martyrs of us?” asked Father
Conan.
“You think to make me look a fool before my
own men,” Sir Edouard declared. “You will see us married, and at
once, or you will die here in your church, and I’ll take the woman
without your blessing and keep her as my mistress and give her to
my men when I’ve tired of her. Would that please you, priest?”
The point of Sir Edouard’s sword rested
squarely on Father Conan’s chest. At first no one moved. Every man
in the chapel stood rooted in his place by shock and horror. Even
for those hardened warriors, the possibility of bloodshed in that
sacred place was unthinkable. It would be a mortal sin no man would
dare countenance. Yet Branwen believed Sir Edouard would carry out
his threat.
“Stop!” Branwen put out her hand, laid it on
Sir Edouard’s sword arm, and forcibly pushed the sword away from
Father Conan’s breast. At that moment she was not thinking of
herself at all, but of the gentle old priest. She could not let
harm come to him through any action of hers. A sense of utter
defeat filled her, but she kept her chin high. Sir Edouard would
never know how humiliated she was that he had won so easily.
“Read the marriage contract,” she said. “I
will sign it, and I will be your obedient wife, my lord, so long as
you swear here and now never to harm this good man, whose only
intent was to protect me.”
“I thought you’d agree.” Sir Edouard sheathed
his sword. “Where is the contract? Where the devil is my
secretary?”
A nondescript wisp of a man stepped from his
hiding place behind one of Sir Edouard’s brawnier knights. The
knight gave him a shove as he came forward. The little man stumbled
and would have fallen against the altar had Father Conan not caught
him. The remaining tension in the chapel dissolved into mocking
laughter.
“He’s good for nothing but reading and
writing,” scoffed Sir Edouard. “He can’t even lift a sword, yet he
thinks he’s a man. Well, fool, read the contract.”
The marriage agreement was brief and what
Branwen had expected. It granted Sir Edouard all of Afoncaer and
Tÿnant, promised Griffin the lands he wanted provided he remained
loyal to Sir Edouard, and gave Branwen to Edouard as wife. All the
clauses of the contract would be confirmed at the moment the
marriage was consummated.
Her hand shaking, her face white, Branwen
signed her name to it. Griffin, who could not write, made his mark
and then pressed a seal ring Branwen recognized as their father’s
into the wax. The secretary applied more wax so Edouard, who could
not write either, could use the larger seal ring of the Lord of
Afoncaer. Branwen wanted to tear it off his finger.
With difficulty she kept her face calm as she
sank to her knees before the altar and allowed Sir Edouard to take
her hand while Father Conan pronounced his blessing. Then they were
outside the chapel, Sir Edouard’s men jostling her when they
crowded toward their leader to congratulate him.
“Kiss her!” cried one of the knights.
“Better yet, bed her at once!” yelled
another.
Sir Edouard laughed at that, holding up one
hand for silence.
“The lord of a great fortress and the vast
lands surrounding it,” he declared, “is duty bound to serve his
guests a wedding feast before the bedding. Come, my dear.” He held
out his left arm for Branwen.
“My lord,” Father Conan interrupted, “I have
done all you have required of me since you became master of
Afoncaer. I tended the wounded, helped to bury the dead, and though
I was reluctant, I did bless your marriage to Lady Branwen. Now I
ask of you a favor that will be to your benefit.”
“What is that, priest?” Sir Edouard regarded
Father Conan through narrowed, suspicious eyes.
“Allow a little time for Lady Branwen to pray
with me in the chapel, to ask Heaven’s peace upon her fallen
relatives. I’m certain such prayers would ease her grief and make
her more amenable to your plans for her. I can also instruct her in
her wifely duties.”
“A priest instruct a woman in how to be a
wife? Is this some strange Welsh custom?” Sir Edouard threw back
his head and laughed, showing strong white teeth. His men laughed
with him, but there was no true humor in them, only mockery.
“It is an unhappy man who has an enemy for a
wife,” Father Conan replied, undaunted. “Let me have but an hour
with her for prayer and instruction and I promise you will find by
your side a more willing and agreeable bride.”
“Not by his side,” shouted one of Sir
Edouard’s men. “She belongs beneath him – in all things!” This
brought another burst of laughter from those who had been listening
to the exchange between their master and Father Conan.
“A short time only,” Sir Edouard decided
after a hard look at Branwen. “Then I want her sitting beside me at
the feast and behaving as a wife should.”
Branwen followed Father Conan back into the
chapel. He shut and bolted the door, then led her to the altar.
There they knelt together while he offered up brief prayers for the
repose of the souls of all who had died at Afoncaer and Tynant.
“Now,” he said, shifting off his knees to sit
on the grey stone step that led to the altar, “we can talk without
being overheard, but we must be quick about it. My child, I am so
sorry to see you used in this way. I wanted to warn you about your
new husband. As we buried the dead today I learned from one of his
squires that Sir Edouard is not one of the Conqueror’s men as we
had supposed him to be. He is a rogue knight, an outlaw with no
liege lord. Such a man cannot be trusted. Never anger him, Branwen,
for he would not hesitate to kill you. That is the primary
instruction I must give you. Curb your pride, be meek and gentle in
all your dealings with him.”
“So that I may live long as his wife?”
Branwen wiped away the tears she had shed while they prayed, then
sat on the altar step beside him. “I do not want to live one day as
his wife! I want to deny him a true claim to Afoncaer. Father
Conan, you must help me to escape before he can consummate this
terrible marriage.”
Father Conan made a startled sound. He sat
staring at her until Branwen began to fear they would be
interrupted before she could explain the plan she had hastily
devised, a plan that needed his assistance if it were to
succeed.
“Under ordinary circumstances,” Father Conan
said finally, “I would guide a young woman to follow the desires of
her older male kin about her marriage. In this case I cannot in
honor do so, because it was Sir Edouard himself who slew your
father, and from behind, in a most cowardly way. He has spared
Griffin and me only because he needs us for his own purposes. I
have tried to warn Griffin to beware of him, but your brother is
too ambitious to listen to me or to anyone.”
“Griffin knows that and he still gave me to a
murderer?” She had been so shocked already that her feelings were
benumbed. She could feel no further outrage, and so she wept no
more, not even at this terrible news.
“A man who would draw his sword in church and
use it to threaten God’s anointed priest at the altar itself is no
fit ruler for Afoncaer,” Father Conan proclaimed. “I cannot bear to
think of your youth and innocence despoiled by such a person. Tell
me your plan, Branwen, and I will do anything I can to help
you.”
“The herbs in my saddlebags will put a man to
sleep when mixed with wine,” Branwen began, as Father Conan leaned
a little closer, nodding in eager agreement.
When they had finished making their plans,
Father Conan led Branwen out of the chapel to the open area before
the burnt-out great hall. There Sir Edouard’s servants and camp
followers had set up all the trestle tables and benches they could
find, and had prepared a feast out of the stores of Afoncaer and
the takings of a small hunting party. Meat roasted on spits over
open fires, the aroma mixing with the odor of charred wood from the
buildings nearby.
Sir Edouard sat on a bench at the center of
the high table. With wary eyes he watched Branwen approach. Just
before she reached his side she sank into a deep curtsey.
“My lord,” she said, “I ask your forgiveness
for my rude words in the chapel. Father Conan has convinced me I
was wrong to refuse to marry the new master of Afoncaer. I am now
prepared to be your obedient wife. I shall try to please you in
every way.”
“You are forgiven,” Sir Edouard said,
extending his hand to her, “though I expected more of a fight from
a Welsh woman. Sit here beside me, Branwen.”