sister-in-law not to handle the fleece over-much and risk felting it.
Hiking up her skirts, she dashed the short distance from the wash shed to the back entrance of the house, startling an old goose that ruffled up its feathers and hissed at her.
“Keep a civil tongue, or I might pluck and roast you for our guest’s supper,” Enid warned the testy fowl.
The goose waddled off with its bill in the air.
The lady of the house managed to reach her own small chamber without being harassed further. After pulling off her coarse-woven work tunic, she rummaged in the chest at the foot of her bed, looking for an overgarment better suited to welcoming such an important guest.
A flash of green caught her eye. From the very bottom of the trunk Enid lifted a fine woolen kirtle, trimmed at the neck and wrists with close-stitched embroidery. Her breath caught in her throat as she held the garment in her hands.
During the years since she’d come to Glyneira, she had found one excuse after another to avoid wearing it, until she’d almost forgotten it existed. She had worn this fine garment on her wedding day, though it had been fashioned to impress a much grander bridegroom than Howell ap Rhodri.
It reminded Enid of all she’d risked once upon a time. And all she’d lost in the risking.
“Oh, don’t be fanciful,” she scolded herself as she slipped the garment over her head. “A kirtle’s a kirtle and this is the best you own.”
As she covered her hair with a fresh veil, a small boy barrelled into the chamber. A stubby-legged puppy scrambled through the rushes at the child’s heels.
“Myfanwy said to tell you the man wants water.” Blurting out his message, Master Davy looked ready to bolt out of the room as fast as he’d bolted in—until he caught a good look at his mother.
“What’re you dressed so grand for, Mam?” Davy scooped up the puppy, who wriggled in his arms. “You look as fair as the queen of springtime. All you need is a crown of flowers in your hair like Myfanwy makes for hers.”
“Queen of springtime, is it?” Enid blushed as she remembered a young fellow who’d once fashioned a garland of spring blossoms for her hair and offered equally extravagant praise to her looks. That fellow had danced all over her heart, then danced away…never to return.
“I mind you’ll make a bard yet, Davy-lad.” Enid ruffled her son’s honey-brown hair, determined not to let thoughts of Con ap Ifan spoil this moment. “But you make it sound as though your poor mother goes around like a slattern most of the time. Away with you now before that dog messes on the floor again.”
As the boy ran off laughing, Enid noticed how tall he’d sprouted through the winter. It was a wonder he could still wriggle into his tunic, it had grown so tight. She’d have to look through her other trunk to see if there were any clothes Bryn had outgrown that might now fit Davy.
Thinking of her older son made Enid remember their guest. Of the many boons she stood to gain from wedding Lord Macsen, she most craved the chance to reunite her family. It’d been such a long time since Howell had sent the boy away for fosterage. She’d rather hoped Macsen might bring her son along on this visit.
A wistful pang gave way to questioning. It wasn’t like Macsen ap Gryffith to travel alone, without a small but skilled escort of armed men. Did the border chief have reason to call on Glyneira in secret? Or could something be wrong?
From out of the chest Enid snatched a handsome basin and ewer of beaten copper along with linen drying cloths, all too fine for any but Glyneira’s most honored guests. Making her way to the kitchen to fetch hot water, she schooled her steps to a brisk but decorous pace appropriate for a lady of the maenol. Her thoughts fluttered though, like doves in a cote when a fox prowled the ground below.
What if Macsen had changed his mind about the betrothal he’d hinted at when Howell lay dying? What if he’d never meant it in the first place—only wanted to calm her fears for the future? She’d managed well enough, had even come to enjoy being mistress of Glyneira in her own right instead of always deferring to a husband.
But the past winter had been an uncommonly quiet one. Such tranquility could not last on the borders. When strife erupted again, as surely it would, Enid wanted her children tucked up in the comparative safety of Hen Coed, buffered by a stout palisade with a canny warrior lord for a step-father.
Almost without her noticing it, the rhythm of her footsteps quickened.
The nimble music of Myfanwy’s harp greeted Enid as she entered the hall. For an instant the mellow glow of maternal pride radiated through her. Then she heard a second instrument join her daughter’s, lower in pitch and more assured in touch. Myfanwy began to sing in her high, pure treble, while a masculine voice chimed in a pleasing harmony.
The voice had a most agreeable timbre in the mellow middle register, unlike the ominous resonant rumble of Macsen ap Gryffith’s.
Enid crossed the cavernous hall with a halting gait, like a sleepwalker drawn by the Fair Folk. Something deep within her quivered to life at the sound of that all-but-forgotten voice. Or perhaps it shivered with foreboding.
She approached so quietly the two musicians did not pay her any mind at first. In the dim interior of the hall, Myfanwy’s young face seemed to cast a radiance of its own, kindled by the admiring attention of their guest.
He was a handsome fellow. Not towering and brawny like Lord Macsen, but medium tall for a Welshman, his lithe frame fleshed with hard, lean sinew. The eastern sun had tanned his face since last Enid had beheld it, and any suggestion of boyish roundness had been pared away by the years.
Topped by a vigorous tangle of nut-brown curls, it was a well-shaped face in every way. Agile brows arched above a pair of eyes that shimmered with lively charm. Beneath the straight sloping nose with its potent flared nostrils, poised a tempting pair of lips. They were neither too full nor too thin, but so ideal for kissing they made Enid’s own lips quiver just to look at them. Below that melting mouth jutted a resolute chin, softened by the disarming hint of a dimple. It was a face to break a woman’s heart.
How many more had he broken since hers?
Clutching the basin with a remorseless grip to keep her hands from trembling, Enid willed her voice not to catch in her throat as she spoke loud enough to be heard above the music.
“Well, well, Conwy ap Ifan, what are you doing in Powys? The last I heard you’d hired out as a mercenary to the Holy Land.”
His voice fell silent and he glanced up at her with a sudden questioning look. For a moment Enid’s unhealed heart wrenched in her bosom fearing he would not remember her.
Then his smile blazed forth. “Well, well yourself, Enid versch Blethyn. What are you doing in Powys? The last I heard, you were set to wed some princeling from Ynys Mon.”
Something about the set of his features or the tilt of his head sliced through Enid like an arrow loosed at close range from a powerful Welsh short bow.
Dear heaven! She must get Con ap Ifan away from Glyneira before Macsen and his party arrived.
Chapter Two
A pity he couldn’t linger here, Con found himself thinking as he cast an admiring eye over the cariad of his boyhood, since ripened into vivid, beguiling flower.
Enid’s sudden appearance and sharp questions had taken him by surprise. Yet in another way they hadn’t. Something about the child had put her mother firmly in his mind, though he’d scarcely been aware of it at the time. The sweet lilt of her young voice, perhaps, or some trick of her smile, for all else about the pair went by contraries.
The girl was fair and tall for her age and race, while her mother had the dark, fey delicacy of a true Welsh beauty. Full dark brows cast a bewitching contrast to her dainty elfin features. Her eyes were the dusky purple of black-thorn plums, and her hair—what Con could see of