Castle of Dreams

Part I

Branwen

Wales, A.D. 1085

Chapter 1

Branwen was fourteen when Normans came to Afoncaer for the first time. She knew, for everyone knew, that they had already conquered parts of South Wales and had established fortified outposts in Gwynedd and Powys, but until now they had ignored Afoncaer. Her distant cousin, the Wise Man Rhys ap Daffydd, had been driven from his home in Powys and had vanished into the thick forests east of Afoncaer. Some said Rhys had made himself invisible and would remain so until the Normans went away, but Branwen, who had been his pupil for several years, did not believe the story.

Branwen had been taken from her childhood home the year before, when her mother died, and had been sent to live with her aunt and uncle at Tynant. Her brother Griffin, older by six years, had gone to Afoncaer, half a day’s walk away from Branwen’s new home, to serve their grandfather as a warrior. Branwen was none too fond of Griffin. He was too violent for her taste, which, thanks to Rhys’s teaching and gentle influence, favored learning and the compounding of herbal medicines, and included a deep affection for all living things. She did like her cousins at Tynant. Whenever their household chores were finished they roamed together in the forest or rode her uncle’s ponies, and once they even discovered an unknown, hidden entrance into the storage cellars of the house. They told no one about it, keeping the knowledge as their own private secret and making the tunnel passage a part of their innocent games. Branwen was not unhappy, despite her half-orphaned state.

She could not understand why anyone would want to live at Afoncaer. It was only a wooden hall built on the bluff overlooking the river, with stables and a small stone chapel. It was always full of rough, sweaty men who were sworn to her grandfather, the ruler of Afoncaer. Branwen thought the place was ugly. She much preferred Tynant, which lay in a flower-filled meadow in the forest where a clean, wide stream ran over ancient rocks, or, if not Tynant, then the green peace of the forest itself, which Rhys had taught her to love.

The Normans appreciated what Branwen did not. Afoncaer guarded one of the most important roads into Wales, and they were determined to conquer Wales, as they had earlier conquered all of England. They took Afoncaer, with great loss of life among the Welsh defenders, including Branwen’s own father and uncle and grandfather. When it was over, her brother Griffin sent for her to join him at the fortress.

I don’t want to go. I hate Afoncaer and I despise the Normans, Branwen said. What can Griffin be thinking of?

Perhaps he’s going to marry you to a Norman lord, giggled one of her younger cousins.

Branwen stared at the speaker, aghast, cold fear pouring through her veins.

If that’s what he wants, I won’t do it, Branwen declared.

We don’t know what Griffin wants, her aunt soothed with great reasonableness. Griffin is now your nearest living male kin. You can’t refuse his summons without a serious reason, and you have none. Perhaps he only wants you to use your healing skills among the wounded.

You must be right, Branwen said with relief, not wanting to think any more about the suggestion her cousin had just made. I ought to take along a goodly supply of herbs to ease the pain of battle wounds, and others to help the injured to sleep.

You’d help Normans? cried a young male cousin. If I had the chance I’d kill them all.

Rhys has taught me, Branwen told the eight-year-old would-be warrior, that if a person is ill or injured it matters not which side of a dispute that person favored, or whether I like or dislike my patient. I must put what skills I have at the service of anyone who needs them. Besides, if I care for the Norman wounded their leader may be willing to let me tend to the hurts of the Welshmen who were taken prisoner, and thus I will be able to help our own good people.

Branwen chose the necessary herbs from her supplies and packed them into her saddlebags along with as many linen bandages as her aunt could spare. Then she mounted her horse and, accompanied by the armed guards Griffin had sent for her, left Tÿnant and went to Afoncaer.

The place showed all too clearly how bitter had been the battle to take it. The chapel still stood, and the tiny priest’s house beside it, but the log palisade surrounding the fortress had been pulled down and burned by the Normans during their assault, and the great hall was badly damaged by fire. Branwen dismounted, looking around in stunned horror. She was about to order one of the guards to attend to her horse when she saw her brother striding toward her.

Griffin, I’m glad you are safe. I’ve brought my herbs, she began, pulling her saddlebags off the horse. Griffin silenced her with a laugh.

It’s not for that I ordered you here, he told her.

Wondering what he did want of her, Branwen turned to stare again at the devastation the Normans had wrought. She flinched at the sight of those cruel foreigners swarming over her grandfather’s domain, searching for whatever loot they could find. Griffin made an impatient gesture, calling her attention back to him.

It could have been worse, he said in answer to the horrified look she cast upon him, had I not surrendered when I did.

Surrendered? Branwen flushed with shame and anger. Our grandfather would never have surrendered. Or our father.

But they were both dead by then, and our uncle, too, which left me as leader of the defenders. Unlike the other men in our family, I have enough sense to make certain I survived. Griffin smiled at her. It was not a pleasant smile. Now Afoncaer belongs to Sir Edouard, but he will let me keep our father’s lands, for a favor. You are to help me, little sister.

What can I possibly do? Branwen did not believe the bestial Normans would ever give back anything they had once taken, not even some unimportant forest or farmland. She said so, and Griffin laughed at her again.

You know nothing of such matters. I have made a pact with them. I have given my word and Sir Edouard has given his. He is their leader, and you will marry him.

Never! I’ll die first! Branwen gaped at her brother as if she had never seen him before. So, her cousin had been right. She had not thought even Griffin could be so insensitive and heartless toward his own kin. These Normans have killed half our family and you expect me to marry one of them?

That’s right.

"You’re mad. I won’t do it. I’m going back to Tÿnant.’’ As Branwen started to remount her horse, Griffin’s cold words stopped her.

You can’t go back there. It was attacked just after you left. Tÿnant belongs to Sir Edouard by now.

Our aunt, our cousins, what of them? She could hardly speak for fear for her loved ones. Griffin merely shrugged, and suddenly Branwen remembered that one of her male cousins was old enough to be a serious rival to Griffin in the near future. There had already been talk within the family about the competition between the two.

How can you side with these Norman brutes? Branwen cried.

Your skin is too thin, Branwen. You are too particular. I, Griffin told her, am now Sir Edouard’s liege man. He will grant me our father’s old lands as my fief, and one day soon, if we are both clever and keep our wits about us, I shall be lord of Afoncaer. It is what I have always wanted. Had the Normans not come I would have had to wait patiently for years while our grandfather ruled here, and then our uncle and father, before my turn. And at some point I would have had to fight our cousin Owain of Tÿnant, whom the Normans have today conveniently removed for me. I saw my chance and I took it. And now you, sister, will do as I tell you.

It was insane. The entire world had gone mad. There was not even time to grieve for her dead. Sir Edouard, Griffin told her, was eager for the marriage and would waste no time on unnecessary preliminaries. There were no respectable women at Afoncaer to attend her. They had all fled or had been killed when the fortress was sacked. The only women there now were camp followers, and even Griffin would not assign one of them as his sister’s maid.

You will have to dress yourself, Griffin told her, taking her arm and pulling her toward the priest’s house. You are to wait in here until Sir Edouard is ready for you.

Where is Father Conan? Branwen demanded. She had known the elderly priest for years. He was close to her grandfather’s age and much respected. Perhaps he could make Griffin see how wrong it was to treat her this way.

He’s burying the dead, Griffin said, forcing her through the doorway into the dim outer room of the little dwelling. You won’t see him until it’s time for him to bless the marriage. Leave your saddlebags here. You won’t need your herbs in the chapel. Save them to bind up your beloved husband’s wounds on some other day.

Moving into the second, smaller room, which served Father Conan as bedchamber, Griffin picked up a garment that had been draped across the priest’s narrow bed.

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.

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 laid 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 his 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.

Swallowing hard against the sensations he had unexpectedly created in her body, Branwen closed her eyes. If the herbed wine did not stop him soon, there would be no way to prevent what he was going to do. Hope of escape had kept her from panic, but now she had to consider the possibility that Sir Edouard would take possession of her within a matter of moments. She felt his hands on her hips, pulling her closer so he could push his male hardness against her.

Yes, he said, his harsh voice now a rough murmur, Ah, yes, Branwen, I shall take great pleasure in making you my own.

He lowered his head, clamping his mouth over hers in a forceful kiss. He pushed her lips apart and slipped his tongue into her mouth. Branwen shivered, then stood perfectly still, refusing to let herself feel anything. She did not want to provoke him to either violence or a passionate rush of activity that would end with her stretched beneath him on Father Conan’s bed. When the kiss ended she put her hands on his shoulders and tried to push him away.

Please, my lord, may I have another cup of wine? she asked breathlessly.

Am I so repulsive that you need to be drunk to accept me? he growled.

"No, my