Time. She needed time to assess her surroundings. To discover just where she was and how she might escape back to her own land. It was already November, and the winter would be upon them very soon. Did she have time to make her way home now, or should she wait until spring? But come the spring, her child would be born. It would be harder to travel with a baby than to travel with the baby unborn. Unborn, the child was safely sheltered within her body. She did not know what to do. For the first time in her life she was faced with a situation to which there seemed to be no right answer.

Sleep. She needed to sleep. Her exhaustion was making her fearful and indecisive. These were qualities she dare not indulge if she was to survive; if her child was to survive. Madoc! Her heart called out to him in the silence of the night. Madoc! Why could he not hear her? They had loved one another from the first moment of their first meeting somewhere back in the dim mists of another time and place. He had pursued her through the other times and places that had followed in order to gain her forgiveness, to regain her love. He had both those things now, but fate had separated them once more. Still she struggled to reach out to him. Why was he not reaching out to her? He could not believe her dead! No matter what Brys of Cai had plotted and planned! No matter what Eadwine Aethelhard had said. Madoc could not believe her dead!

Could he? And as if in answer to her question, Wynne felt her child moving within her for the first time. No, little one, she thought, her graceful hands protectively cupping her belly. Your father does not believe us dead. He will find us one day. He will!

Chapter 12

When Ealdraed woke her the following morning, it was, to Wynne's embarrassment, well past sunrise. "The lord wanted you to be well-rested," the old woman assured her. "I was told to leave you until now." She helped Wynne to wash and dress, giving her a dark green tunic dress to wear over her lavender under tunic. "The lord said you were to have it. It belonged to his late wife," Ealdraed said, and then took her downstairs into the hall.

There was no one at the high board when Wynne calmly seated herself to the left of the thegn's place.

"Yer a bold wench for a slave," Ealdraed noted.

"I am not a slave," Wynne said firmly, "though I have been stolen from my home and forced into this servitude. I will not behave as a slave."

Ealdraed cackled and hurried off, to return shortly with a trencher of freshly baked bread filled with a steaming barley cereal and a goblet of brown ale. "Eat," she said. "The lord has told me I am to show you Aelfdene and then set you to light tasks."

Light tasks? Wynne almost giggled, but she did not wish to hurt Ealdraed's feelings. Instead she ate her meal, thinking as she did that the cereal lacked flavor and the bread was tough. The ale, however, was excellent. When she had finished, she followed Ealdraed from the hall and out into the courtyard of Aelfdene.

"The lord has eighteen hides of land," the old lady told Wynne. "He is a very wealthy man."

"My husband has a castle and ten times as much land," Wynne replied, but Ealdraed looked disbelieving.

"Look back at the house, lass. Is it not a fine one? And stone too, not timber like so many of our neighbors'," Ealdraed bragged. "Did you see the posts supporting the roof, and the roof beams in the hall? Painted with designs, they are! And three fire pits as well! ‘Tis as snug and safe a house as any could want." She grinned a toothless grin at Wynne. "And see the walls about the manor house? And the iron-bound oaken doors and gates? There's none that could overcome us if they tried." Ealdraed was very proud of Aelfdene.

" 'Tis a fine house," Wynne agreed. "It is much like my girlhood home at Gwernach."

"The lord has a church," Ealdraed informed Wynne. "And a kitchenIbakehouse; and a bell tower to warn the countryside in case of danger!"

A church! "Is there a priest here for the church?" Wynne asked.

"Nay," came the disconcerting reply. "We had one once, but he died of a spring flux of the bowels some years back. There has been none since, and just as well, say I," Ealdraed muttered. "The old ways are strong here, for all the priests' teachings. Even Harold Godwinson keeps a Danish wife. Her children are honored among all, though the king disapproves. He is too saintly a man, King Edward."

"I would not know," replied Wynne. "My king is Gruf-fydd ap Llywelyn. My father was kin to Gruffydd."

"There are the halls the lord had built for his sons," Ealdraed said, ignoring Wynne's remark. "They are timber."

"You do not approve of Eadwine Aethelhard's sons, do you?" Wynne gently queried.

"No, I do not, though I be but a serf and should have no opinions," replied Ealdraed. "Baldhere, the younger, is not a bad sort, though his wife is overproud. Caddaric, however, now there is a wicked 'un." She lowered her voice. "I do not think he will ever get a child on any woman, and just as well!"

"I was told Eadwine Aethelhard had several wives before he fathered his sons," Wynne answered her.

"The lord was betrothed in the cradle and widowed at the age of five," Ealdraed told Wynne. "He was betrothed and widowed again before he was nine. 'Twas then the old master decided to wait until he was more of an age to consummate a marriage. The lord was a father first at seventeen and again at eighteen. After that the lady Mildraed miscarried five other children. Poor lady. She was a good soul. The lord, however, had no trouble getting his two sons on her. It is not so with his son, Caddaric. Now, the poor lady Eadgyth is too frail, as any can see, to bear children, but look you there, Wynne. There are Caddaric's four women now. The tallest one is Berangari. The plump one is Dagian. Aelf is the wench with the long blond braids, and Haesel is the youngest. None is weak or fragile, yet he cannot get children on any of them. Men are wont to blame a woman for their lack of son, but think you those four strong-backed girls incapable of mothering children?"

"Nay," Wynne replied. "They seem fit enough, and you are right that it seems odd none can conceive."

Caddaric's four women, walking together, now came deliberately abreast of Wynne and Ealdraed. The one called Berangari spoke boldly.

"So, Ealdraed, this is the slave woman that our lord Caddaric would have. A wild Welsh girl," she sneered. "And fertile as a cow too, I see. You are fortunate, wench, that the lord took you for himself, else I should have scratched your eyes out myself."

"Have you tried a lotion of arum and bryony for the spots on your face, Berangari," Wynne said sweetly. "If you have none, I shall make it for you. You will not hold Caddaric Aethelmaere's favor with a face as pocked as a worm-eaten apple."

Berangari gasped and her face grew red with her fury. The women accompanying her drew back nervously. "H-H-How dare you speak to me in such a fashion!" the Saxon woman shrieked. "You are a slave! A slave! You have no right to speak to me at all unless I give you my permission! I will go to the lord! I will see that you are beaten!"

Unafraid, Wynne stepped forward so that she was directly in front of Berangari. "You may believe what you like, Berangari, and you may call me whatever you desire. You cannot, however, change the fact that I am not a slave, nor a slave born, nor will I behave in a servile manner. I am Wynne of Gwernach, wife to Madoc, prince of Powys… My blood and that of my child is far better than any here! I will give my respect to Eadwine Aethelhard, for he is the lord of Aelfdene, and a good lord too, I can see. I will give my friendship to those who would have it, but I will not be anyone's slave. If you ever address me again, do it with courtesy, or do it not at all." Then Wynne turned her back on the four women and said to Ealdraed, "What are these light tasks that my lord would have me perform?"

"Wait!" It was Berangari. "Can you really make me a lotion that would remove the spots from my face?"

Wynne turned back to her. "If I could gain admission to the pharmacea here, aye, I could."

"There is no pharmacea at Aelfdene," Berangari said.

"There should be," Wynne replied. "I will speak to Eadwine Aethelhard. Who makes your medicines and salves?"

"There is no one," Berangari replied. "There was an old woman once, but she died."

"Was not the lady Mildraed skilled in these things?"

"The lady Mildraed spent most of her time weaving and resting," Berangari said. "She was frail in her later years."

"And if someone is injured?" Wynne probed.

"Someone binds up their wounds and we hope for the best," Berangari answered.

"This will not do," Wynne told them. "Ealdraed, where is Eadwine Aethelhard? I must speak to him immediately! Light tasks can be accomplished by any hands, but I am a healer, and if there is none here at Aelfdene to heal, then that must be my task."

"The lord is in the fields. It is the day set aside for the gleaners," Ealdraed said.

"Take me to my lord," Wynne said firmly. "There is no time to waste."

Chortling to herself, Ealdraed led Wynne through the open gates of Aelfdene and down the road to the fields. There they found Eadwine Aethelhard, who sat upon his horse watching benevolently as the women and children belonging to his estate carefully gleaned through the mown stalks of previously harvested grain for the remaining kernels of oats, rye, and barley that could be salvaged. Whatever they found was theirs to keep and add to the winter allotment made them by their master. Successful gleaning could mean the difference between a comfortable winter or a lean, hard one.