Authors: David Wind
When the door opened, the voices within quieted. Every eye turned in expectation. When Gwendolyn stepped inside, a collective sigh issued from the waiting women, and smiles burst forth upon their faces.
“Magnificent!” cried Estelle Demarchier, wife of her grandfather’s chief of arms. Three other women, dressed in flowing white Norman robes, rushed forward to embrace their friend. Through all of it, Gwendolyn felt as if she were in a dream, that she was an observer, and that this was happening to someone else.
The women cried and cooed and complimented Gwendolyn, forgetting for the moment all the whispered rumors of her birth, and treating her as their dearest friend.
“Turn! Show us everything!” cried Sanella Llewellyn, her cousin from Cardiff.
Gwendolyn gazed at her younger cousin for a moment before she smiled and spun once for them. But when she stopped and faced them all again, she heard a dissenting chord from William Marshall’s daughter.
Gwendolyn fixed her with a withering stare as the room fell into silence. “Does it bother you that I wear the clothing of my heritage?” she asked in a low voice of challenge.
“Before a Norman king?”
“Before any man or woman, I am not ashamed of who I am!” Gwendolyn declared. “Nor do I seek to prove myself something I am not!” Marshall’s daughter turned scarlet and drew her eyes from Gwendolyn’s. It was well-known that William Marshall, although a gallant knight and the king’s highest advisor, had been raised from humble beginnings, and given the Earldom of Pembroke through the combined mastery of military strategy and his prowess on the tournament fields. But, the Marshall family was English-born, and ruling a Welsh shire held a certain taint.
Before anything further could mar the wedding, the chapel door burst open and Hughes stepped in. Hughes, in his fifty-fifth year, was still a sight that could draw fear and admiration equally. Today, he was dressed in the finest of robes, his surcoat showing the proud insignia of Devonshire and Kildrake, and his fur-collared mantle billowing fully when he walked.
Hughes stopped when his eyes met his granddaughter’s.
He gazed at her, taking in her appearance, until a slow smile spread across his features. Stepping back, he raised his arm and the chamberlain entered, the long staff of his office held high before him. He rapped it three times on the stone floor before he spoke.
“It is the hour of the joining of Devonshire and Radstock.
It is time for the vows to be sealed,” he stated formally.
Gwendolyn took a deep breath and stepped forward. Her three handmaidens fell in behind her and lifted the hem of her long mantle as she walked to her grandfather. The duke turned when she reached him, and together, they entered the chapel, stepping onto the carpet of red wool laid out before them.
Suddenly, Gwendolyn’s heart began to beat faster. Her eyes flickered to-and-fro as she looked at the people staring at her in the small chapel. The chapel was no larger than double her own chamber, and because of that, only fifty people were to witness her marriage. Gwendolyn was conscious of a hundred eyes upon her while she walked, but was unable to see or feel their expressions. Thankfully, reality departed and the strange feeling of being once again a spectator at her own wedding helped to ease her tense nerves.
When she saw Miles, her breath caught. He was dressed as befitted an earl and knight of England. A surcoat of forest-green contrasted perfectly with his long black hair. Leggings of the same color graced his calves, but his long, flowing mantle was of pure white, clasped together across his shoulders by a thick golden cord.
Endless moments later, Gwendolyn reached his side. She gazed into his sea-green eyes, and suddenly returned to her body, and to what was happening this day.
When the archbishop spoke, everyone turned to face him.
He spoke eloquently in Latin, but Gwendolyn heard not a word. Her mind spun madly, and within it, she made her own vows to her husband. Then, at last, the archbishop of Exeter opened his arms wide in signal. Together, Gwendolyn and Miles knelt on the waiting cushions and gazed up at the richly dressed archbishop, as the handmaidens stood above the couple and held a sheer white cloth over their heads.
In a blurring of prayer and words, with her hand resting lightly upon his, Gwendolyn and Miles were united. The service ended suddenly, with the couple staring deeply into each other’s eyes, and when the chapel doors opened, a fanfare of trumpets sounded. Standing, her hand again on top of his, Gwendolyn and her husband walked slowly from the chapel to stand within the inner ward, and listen to the cheers of the guests.
Suddenly the ranks of the people opened, and Gwendolyn saw a group of young knights moving toward them and her hand tightened over Miles’s.
“It will soon be over, enjoy it.” But his words were washed away when the ten young knights reached them and separated them, hoisting Gwendolyn, with no gentle movements, high above everyone’s head. Then Miles, too, was lifted into the air and, working as one, the knights carried the newlyweds toward the banquet tables amidst the raucous calls of the guests.
Gwendolyn, once aloft, forced her body to relax. Craning her neck, she saw everything spin around her until she closed her eyes against the sight and waited for it to end.
Then the hands which held her, freed her, and her bare feet were once more on the soft grass of the ward. She opened her eyes and found herself facing Miles. Lifting her arm, she placed it on his. Together they stepped up to the marriage table and, when they were standing behind their seats, waved to the guests.
Today, because of the wedding and the large number of people in attendance, the great hall had been abandoned in favor of the inner ward. And again, because of the wedding, instead of one High Table, there were two. The king, Sir Hughes, and the favored knights would sit at the first High Table. Across from them, Miles, Gwendolyn, and her three maids of honor would sit.
On a scaffold high above the inner ward, musicians played. Forceful, undulating rhythms quavered in the air, and the heat of the moment flowed through Gwendolyn’s body when Miles released her hand so she could sit.
But she did not. Instead, she removed the frontal veil and handed it to Roweena, giving Miles his first unrestricted view of the face of the woman he had just wed. A moment later, she faced the crowd again, smiling fully, signaling the start of the wedding feast.
Both Miles and Gwendolyn steeled themselves for the long hours ahead. Feasting, music, entertainment, and dancing would all combine in a multeity of abandon, and through it all they would watch the festivities. But first, while the musicians played high above the gathering, came the gifts.
For two hours people came forward. Knights, dukes, earls, and finally the messengers of those who were unable to attend on such short notice. The pile of gifts grew higher before the marriage table, and with each gift, Miles and Gwendolyn thanked the bearer.
In a brief moment as one knight left and another prepared to approach, Miles turned to Gwendolyn to toast her with a cup of wine.
“You have made me very happy, my lord,” Gwendolyn whispered above the rim of her cup.
“It is only the beginning, my lady,” Miles replied. His eyes swept across her face, lingering on each individual feature, until at last he turned away.
Then it began again, as the long formal procession of gift bearers continued, and the newly married couple was unable to talk to each other.
Throughout, wine and mead flowed from bottomless pitchers, the music grew louder, and the people grew wilder. Women danced exuberantly, and men laughed and yelled coarsely to each other. But still the gift procession continued. Jewels were presented to the couple and richly embroidered skins were placed before the marriage table.
By mid-afternoon the feast had blossomed, and the guests had abandoned themselves to their personal enjoyments. Course after course was served, and as was the habit with fetes such as this, the banquet grew almost out of control.
Lewd jokes flew everywhere, and the chivalrous knights, who rarely spoke in the presence of women, grew eloquent on their own personal bedroom habits, shouting advice across the boards to Miles.
Gwendolyn stopped blushing after the first hour’s jokes and merely nodded her head. She had no appetite, and saw Miles felt the same. All she wanted was for this feast to end, and for she and Miles to be alone at last. But, glancing up at the sun, she knew there were many hours of feasting left, and many more gifts to be presented before this would happen.
From the corner of his eye, Miles glanced at Gwendolyn and saw her faraway gaze, realizing that she was as impatient to be free as he was. Soon, he thought to himself, again drinking in her beauty. Then he was lost within the music as the feast grew still louder.
When darkness fell, and the torches upon the inner walls had been lit, the madness grew in intensity. No matter where Gwendolyn turned her eyes, she found men sprawled across the boards in drunken stupor. Women, usually so shy and retiring, openly allowed themselves to be fondled.
Then Roweena came to Gwendolyn and whispered in her ear. Gwendolyn turned to look behind her. Her three brides- maids stood waiting, along with five of her family’s women. She leaned over to Miles, who had witnessed this event, and stroked his cheek. “It is time for me,” she whispered.
“Go, prepare yourself,” he said in a low voice.
She stood, and a sudden hush descended on the inner ward as all those who remained conscious stared at her. Standing proudly, her breasts rising and falling evenly, she met her grandfather’s eyes, awaiting his leave.
Hughes stood and bowed gracefully to Gwendolyn.
Only then did she turn and enter the center of the women who awaited her. Following their lead and holding her head high, Gwendolyn walked through the middle of the ward, listening again to the freely called advice of all those present.
When at last the procession reached the archway, Gwendolyn breathed a sigh of relief.
Tonight would be special. Their wedding night was to be spent in the marital bed of Kildrake. Her grandfather had had the servants prepare the nuptial rooms, and they appeared as they had, thirty-five years ago, when he had bedded Gwendolyn’s grandmother.
Entering the room, Gwendolyn saw tapers burning brightly upon every wall. The guardroom’s tapestry was new, but the tapestries covering the other openings were as old as Kildrake.
As if the women had practiced their movements for years, each went about her duties. Roweena removed Gwendolyn’s mantle, while her cousin Sanella guided her to a small table set with food.
“You must eat and build your strength for tonight,” she said.
“Yes,” cried Estelle Demarchier, “You must be strong, for it is rumored that Miles is like a bull.” With that, all the women laughed nervously.
Gwendolyn, prepared for the lewd comments she knew must be endured, smiled wickedly at her friend. “Is it only rumored?”
“Enough!” cried yet another as she poured a cup of wine and handed it to Gwendolyn. “Drink!” she ordered.
Gwendolyn obeyed, draining the cup dutifully. Then, carefully removing the Saracen dagger, she began to eat the light repast set for her while the women continued to prepare the room for the nuptials.
She finished the meal a moment before Roweena and three other servants pulled a tub to the center of the room. When Roweena came for her, the other servants filled the tub, adding scented flowers to the water.
Roweena, conscious of everyone’s stares, undressed Gwendolyn and led her to the tub, as several of the women complimented Gwendolyn on her physical shape.
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Moments after Gwendolyn had gone, Miles was surrounded by his peers. They laughed and joked with him, forcing him to drink many toasts. But he held himself back, drinking only small amounts, yet doing so without offending anyone.
“A word,” called Hughes as he broke through the crowd. Miles nodded, and together they walked to a small corner that afforded privacy from the others. Above the loudness of the festivities, Hughes stared at Miles.
“You marry my granddaughter for love,” he said, and cut off Miles’s hesitant reply with a wave of his hand. “This is good, although rare. It is because of this that Gwendolyn’s dowry is so large.”
“I asked for nothing,” Miles stated, wondering where this conversation was leading.
“But you shall have it anyway. When I had but one daughter, I despaired for Devonshire’s future and for the future of my line. Then, when my daughter had yet another daughter, I knew my line was ended.”
“My lord, this is unnecessary.”
“To me it is necessary!” Hughes declared fiercely, fixing Miles with a hard, determined gaze. “Listen to what I have to say, for it concerns you deeply.
“I had given my consent, and contracted with Guildswood for a marriage that would keep Devonshire strong. At the same time, I had found a mate for Gwendolyn who could tame her wild spirit. I was wrong in not waiting as I had promised my daughter.”
Hughes paused then, shaking his head slowly. “My daughter told me that Gwendolyn would marry for love. I did not believe her. Who would have a woman who dwarfed her husband? But Morgan had seemed to care not. Yet I know he had only desired her for her inheritance. You have taken that from him, and I must warn you that he will do what he can to kill you and claim both Radstock, and Gwendolyn for his own.”