Castle of Dreams Read online

  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.

  Chapter 2

  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.”

  “I know when to stop fighting, my lord,” Branwen said, remembering just in time not to smack away the hand he lai
d on her knee the moment she took her seat.

  “Lord Edouard.” Father Conan bowed behind them. “May I say a blessing before the feast begins?”

  “Yes, priest, do that,” Sir Edouard replied. “I’m inclined to favor you at the moment.” He shouted for silence.

  “And now,” Father Conan said when the blessing was over, “may I suggest that Lady Branwen begin her new duties at once? As Lady of Afoncaer she ought to oversee the serving of your feast. It might be wise for her to assert her authority as your chatelaine so that your household will be run as smoothly as a great lord might wish.”

  “My household?” Sir Edouard looked around at his disorganized people, who were handing out food in a decidedly sloppy manner. He watched as a servant dropped a spit filled with small roasted birds. When it landed in the mud, the fellow picked it up and began pushing the birds onto platters to be passed to the revelers. The new Lord of Afoncaer regarded Branwen with increased interest. “Can you make them into decent retainers?”

  “I will do my best, my lord,” she said. “I have been trained to manage servants and a large household. You have only to tell me what you want done and I will see to it.”

  “Go ahead then,” he told her, “but no tricks. I know better than to trust you Welsh. I’ll be watching you.”

  She felt his eyes on her all the way to the cooking fires, where she began to give orders to the servants. A short time later Father Conan joined her by the wine casks that had been salvaged when fire ravaged the wooden buildings.

  “The wine is my responsibility,” Branwen said to a camp follower who was busily filling a pitcher. “Sir Edouard has placed me in charge of the feast.”

  With a sneer the woman looked her up and down, then flounced away.

  “I have the herbs concealed in my robe,” Father Conan said. “Tell me how much is needed. Let us work quickly, before we are seen or someone becomes suspicious.”

  Under the pretense of overseeing or blessing each cask and pitcher, Branwen and Father Conan slipped the herbs into the wine and saw it passed to Edouard and his men. Branwen was secretly pleased to catch the servants filching cups of the stuff. Like a generous mistress she encouraged them to take more, saying it was only right that all should drink heartily at a wedding feast. When Sir Edouard called her back to his side she left the remaining herbs with Father Conan.

  “What? Is my proud sister changed so soon into a humble wife?” laughed a drunken Griffin, coming to their table with his arm around a woman wearing a tattered red dress that proclaimed her as one of the camp followers. “I saw you supervising the feast as though it pleased you to be Lady of Afoncaer.”

  “She has seen the good sense of behaving well,” Sir Edouard responded. “She understands now that it’s best to obey me.”

  Branwen said nothing. Let them think what they wanted. She would play her part as the obedient wife until the herbed wine had taken effect and she could attempt her escape.

  The Normans drank heartily, becoming loud and boisterous before one by one they began to fall asleep across the tables. Some of them wandered off on unsteady feet, fading into the woods with equally unsteady camp followers. Griffin disappeared, too. Sir Edouard did not seem to notice anything strange about his men’s behavior, but the wine had no obvious influence on him. He drank as heartily as anyone else at the feast and urged cup after cup on Branwen. She managed to spill most of it beneath the table or pour it into his cup when he wasn’t looking. Not knowing when she would find food again, she tried to make herself eat at his order, but she was so nervous her stomach threatened to reject anything she put into it.

  After a while Sir Edouard rose and held out his hand.

  “Come,” he said, “it’s time to consummate this marriage.”

  Branwen thought her heart would stop. If she protested and made him angry all her earlier pretenses would be for naught and he might lock her up so there would be no hope of escape. There was nothing for her to do but go with him peacefully and hope the herbs would make him fall asleep before he could take her to bed. She rose dutifully at his bidding and he took her hand and led her across the clearing toward the chapel.

  “My lord, where are you taking me?” Branwen cried.

  “There’s no fit place for us in the other buildings,” Sir Edouard said. “They’re all burnt and the stink annoys me. I noticed earlier that the priest has a small bedchamber in his house. We can be private there.”

  Just then Father Conan appeared, hurrying toward them with a large pitcher of wine in one hand and two cups in the other.

  “We are going to your house, priest,” Sir Edouard told him. “Make no objection.”

  “I would not dream of trying to stop you, my lord,” Father Conan said in a humble voice. “I only want to make you comfortable. I have brought you more wine, and I will stand guard if you wish, since your men all seem to be occupied.”

  “I don’t need any wine,” Sir Edouard said rudely.

  “But I do,” Branwen cried, eager to seize upon any delaying tactic she could find. “I want to please you, my lord, but I’m so terribly nervous. It would be pleasant to take a cup of wine with you in private and talk together a little before we go to bed.” She blushed as she spoke of bed, hoping her reddened cheeks would convince him of the truth of her words.

  “Are you really as agreeable as you appear to be?” He frowned at her. “Or is this just some Welsh trick? I know you people can’t be trusted.”

  “I have no choice but to be agreeable, my lord,” Branwen said. “You are my husband now, and I will honor and obey you.” The words nearly choked her, but she had her reward when he relented.

  “Well then, priest, bring in the wine,” he said, “and then guard the bedchamber door. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “I’ll bring you a candle from the chapel to light the room,” Father Conan offered.

  When Branwen and Sir Edouard were alone in the tiny bedchamber, with the door bolted and the light from the single candle flickering across the stone walls, she began to pray silently that he would fall into a drugged slumber before he could carry out his intentions.

  “Drink the wine you wanted,” Sir Edouard ordered.

  “I would like you to take some also,” Branwen said in what she hoped was a pleasant tone. She handed him a full cup, then pretended to sip at hers. “I know nothing about you, my lord. Will you tell me a little of yourself, and why you came to Afoncaer?”

  “You know all you need to know about me,” he responded, swallowing his wine. Branwen hastened to refill his cup. He drank it down in a gulp, then set the cup on the bench that was the only piece of furniture except for the bed.

  “Come here, girl,” he said.

  Branwen knew she had no choice. She did as he ordered. He put both hands on her shoulders, looking at her with wintry grey eyes. Branwen could only hope he did not see the terror she felt at the thought of him possessing her, or her fading hope that he would fall into an herb-induced stupor before he could do her any harm.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Fourteen,” she replied.

  “A good age for marriage. Kings’ daughters marry at fourteen,” he said. “You are old enough to bear children, and you look strong, though you are so small. We shall have sons, Branwen.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she said meekly, though she silently vowed she would never give him any children at all. She tried again to divert him from his purpose for a few valuable moments, or at least to learn something about him that might be useful. “How old are you, my lord?”

  “You don’t need to know that,” he said. “Your duty will be to obey me in everything without question, to bear my children, to see to the ordering of my household, and to warm my bed. I’ll tolerate no trickery from you, nor any idea that you have any position at Afoncaer except at my sufferance. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Would the herbs never take effect? What was wrong with this man? Why did he not fall asleep as h
is men were doing out in the feasting area?

  “I’ve heard that Welsh women think they can order their husbands about, even imagine they have some right to property. You are now my property, Branwen, and you can hold none in your own right. Understand that at once. Afoncaer is mine, not yours.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Had his stern face softened at her quietly spoken words? Was he growing sleepy?

  “Put down your wine cup and remove your clothes,” he said.

  “My lord, I’m very nervous,” she whispered, hoping he would be willing to talk a little longer, though he seemed to have no idea what conversation was. He only gave orders.

  “It’s natural for a virgin to be nervous,” he said. “I will not hurt you any more than is necessary, Branwen. I prefer that we not be enemies. If you will cooperate with me I will treat you well.”

  She wanted to tell him that holding her prisoner when she wanted to leave him and forcing her to share his bed did not constitute the kind of treatment she had always hoped for from her husband. But then, she did understand that Sir Edouard believed he was treating her kindly. He could have pushed her onto the bed and ravished her at once and called his men to witness that he was, indeed, Lord of Afoncaer. Instead, he was trying to reassure her. What a woman wanted probably meant nothing to him, yet he was making the effort to be polite.

  “This dress does not fit you.” He unbuckled the belt from which her small dagger hung and tossed it carelessly aside. Then his hands were on the gown, raising it, lifting it over her head.

  “I can alter it, my lord,” she said, her head emerging from the heavy silk folds.

  “I’ll see you have other dresses. I want my wife to be properly attired.” He dropped the gown on the beaten earth floor.

  Branwen stood before him clad only in her linen shift and her shoes. He reached out both hands, caught her hair and pulled it forward until the dark curls tumbled across each shoulder and fell down over her bosom. He arranged the curls while she trembled. Then he placed a hand on each of her breasts. His palms were hot. He tested the size and shape of each breast, and ran his fingers across her nipples.