Bertrice Small - A Memory of Love

"So," Rafe said, coming to stand by her side, "I see in your eyes that you have decided to stop drinking that brew of yours each morning."

"You knew?" She was amazed, and quick tears filled her eyes. He had known she was preventing conception, yet he had not forbid her, even though it went against him and the church.

"You have been forced your whole life. Why would I make you have a child until you were ready? I know I am capable of making babies, for I have two bastards at Ardley. Besides, I am a selfish man, wife, and have been enjoying our shared passion. If you now want a babe, then we shall work very hard at making one." He kissed her forehead and brushed away the tears that slipped down her cheek.

"I do love you," she said softly to him.

"I know," he replied.

"Devil!" She smiled at him.

"Witch!" he rejoined.

Seeing them, a shadow crossed Edward de Beaulieu's handsome features. Why had Rhonwyn not loved him the way she obviously loved his cousin Rafe? He would never understand it, but he had at least been fortunate in his Katherine. He had no doubts regarding his sweet wife, and he knew he never would. Still, he could not help but envy the fire that so obviously burned hotly between Rhonwyn and Rafe. Why had not such a fire burned between him and Rhonwyn?

Over Katherine's gentle protests her brother and his wife departed for their own home, but not before Rafe had taken Edward aside.

"Rhonwyn is right," he told his cousin. "Kate is fragile, and she is now well worn with giving you two sons in so short a time. If you cannot contain your lust, find a willing serf upon which to slake your desires. You do not want to kill my sister with your loving, cousin."

"I know you are right, though it galls me to be chided by you," Edward replied. "Still, I do love Katherine, and I would not harm her. I will do as you advise… if I cannot contain my lust."

Rafe grinned. "Good," he said. "Then I shall not have to kill you, cousin."

Edward laughed, and the tension was broken between them. "Tell me," he said, "do you truly love Rhonwyn?''

"Aye," Rafe said, not in the least offended.

"And she loves you?"

"Aye," his cousin drawled. "Do not fret yourself wondering about all that has happened between us, Edward. Kate is the perfect wife for you, and Rhonwyn is the perfect wife for me. What came before doesn't matter. Let us both be content with what we have, and thank God."

They had been wed a year, and they celebrated the occasion on Lammastide as the early harvest began. It had been a good year, and the manor prospered as it never before had.

"You are good luck for Ardley," Rafe told his wife.

"The weather has been particularly favorable this summer," the more practical Rhonwyn said with a smile.

The grain was reaped and stored in the new stone granary. The apples and the pears were gathered. Cider was made from some of the fruit. The rest was stored in a cool stone cellar. Like the good chatelaine she was, Rhonwyn sat with the female serfs on the late summer days picking straw and other bits of dirt from the wool that had been sheared from the sheep earlier in the summer. It would have to be washed before it was carded, and then spun into cloth. It was a time-consuming labor, but it allowed her to get to know the women on the manor, and it permitted them to know her. It was soon decided that the master's wife was not just a pretty face, but a hard worker with no fancy pretentions. This decision having been made, the women were Rhonwyn's own from that moment on. No matter she played with weapons or was Welsh, she was a good lady.

The world about them seemed peaceful enough. They had had no visitors since Glynn had come earlier in summer to warn them of ap Gruffydd's disobedience and that his enemies were plotting with the English against him. King Henry had died the previous November, and King Edward, trusting in his mother's ability to maintain order in England, was slowly wending his way back there. He was not expected to return before next year, but when he came, he would exert his authority over Prince Llywelyn and the Welsh, Rhonwyn knew. But perhaps, she thought, her father just pressed the English while the the king was out of the country. Surely ap Gruffydd was wise enough to know that when Edward returned, he must give sway to the man to whom he had pledged his fealty. It was his duty and the honorable thing to do. Duty and honor were something that Rhonwyn knew her father understood.

September passed, and then October. Rhonwyn loved the autumn. It had always been her favorite time of year. Now she and Rafe spent the daylight hours each day out hunting with their men as they prepared for the long winter to come. The deer were wonderfully fat that year, and soon the winter's supply of meat was more than ample. Although Rafe would see his people were fed during the cold months, he still allowed them to glean in the fields, hunt for rabbits twice a month in his woods, and fish in his streams one day a week. He was a generous master, and his people were loyal to him because of it.

It was Enit who noticed that her mistress's link with the moon had not been broken now in seven weeks. She had also noticed that Rhonwyn's appetite was peckish. "Lady," she said one morning as the two women were in the garderobe going over Rhonwyn's gowns to see what needed mending, "I think you may be with child. You have had no show of blood in many weeks now, and your food does not seem to agree with you. These are all signs of a breeding woman; I know this from my mother."

"Is it possible?" Rhonwyn wondered aloud.

"There is a midwife on the manor, lady. She is Maybel, the miller's wife. Perhaps you should go and see her."

"We'll go today, and you will come with me," Rhonwyn said. "If I am seen going alone, there will be gossip."

"There will be gossip anyway," Enit replied dryly, "but no matter. If you are with child, all will be joyous for you and the master."

They went to visit the miller's wife. She took one look at her mistress and nodded, saying, "Aye, you are with child, lady. God be praised!" Then she beamed a sweet smile at them.

"How can you tell by just looking at me?" Rhonwyn demanded. Surely there was more to it than that.

"Why, I can see it in your eyes, my lady," the miller's wife said. "And in your face. It glows with an inner radiance that only a breeding woman has. Still, I will listen to your symptoms."

"She ain't had a show of blood in seven and a half weeks now, and her food don't agree, even her favorite blankmanger," Enit said before her mistress might even open her mouth.

"Breasts tender?" Maybel asked bluntly.

Rhonwyn nodded.

"Belly feels swollen, but don't look it?"

"Oh, yes!" Rhonwyn said.

"Last show of blood?"

"Last week in August," Enit spoke up again.

"The child will be born in the beginning of June," Maybel pronounced, "and I will be here to deliver it for you, my lady. You need have no fears, for you are a healthy lass, but no galloping about the countryside from now on. A nice gentle walk or the cart for you, my lady, and no more battling with your sword with those two Welshmen of yours until after the birth. What if you had an accident, my lady?"

"I am too skilled for accidents," Rhonwyn said proudly.

"I shall tell the master," Maybel replied calmly.

"Oh, very well," Rhonwyn muttered irritably.

Both Maybel and Enit hid a smile.

"Not a word of this until I have told Rafe," Rhonwyn told them both. "I don't want it all over the manor until he knows. He will want time to crow and swagger," she chuckled, and her two companions laughed heartily, for they fully understood that their lord would behave as if he were the first man to father a child on his wife.

Wrapping her cloak about her, Rhonwyn left Enit and Maybel and walked out across the meadow. The sun was shining today, but the air was cool, the trees bereft of their leaves. A baby. Within her a new life was growing at this very moment as she walked. Was it a son she carried or a daughter? A baby. They were going to have a baby, and it had happened so quickly. She had ceased taking her secret brew only a few months ago. A baby! A new life to nurture. But what did she know about being a mother? And would what happened to her mother happen to her? Would she die in childbirth? Nay! She shook the frightening thought off. Vala had birthed both her daughter and her son easily. It had only been with that last child she had suffered, but then she had been so frightened that it was the child of her rape and not ap Gruffydd's. And in retrospect, Rhonwyn was never certain that her mother hadn't, in a moment of pure madness, tried to force that last child from her womb before its time and in doing so, caused her own demise.

f will pray, she thought. And I will ask my aunt to pray along with her entire abbey. Their prayers will surely keep me safe. A baby. Rafe and I are having a baby! Rafe! She had to find her husband and tell him this marvelous news before he heard it elsewhere, for Rhonwyn had no doubt that the entire manor would know before long. Turning, she ran back across the meadow, the sheep scattering before her, her cloak flying in the breeze. "Rafe! Rafe! Rafe!"

He heard his name being called. Called with great urgency. It was Rhonwyn's voice! My God! Was it the Welsh? He dashed from the stables where he had been discussing several matters with the leathersmith and saw her racing toward him. He caught her in his arms, looking anxiously into her face. "What is it, Rhonwyn?"