'Four!'
'Take away one head. How many?'
'Three!'
'Excellent. That second calculation is called subtraction,' Sister Rhan explained.
They quickly discovered that Rhonwyn had a talent for arithmetic. Each day she increased her knowledge until Sister Rhan assured the abbess that her niece would never be cheated by anyone. At least not where arithmetic was concerned. Grammar and logic appealed to the young girl, but while her handwriting improved markedly, Rhonwyn seemed to have no real talent for rhetoric, and she knew it.
'My brother would do well with it,' she told her teacher. 'He makes up stories and poems, and puts them to music that he sings in the hall of Cythraul. I think he will be a great bard one day.'
Her time was growing shorter at Mercy Abbey, and her days, it seemed, were busy from dawn to dusk. Her two companions, Elen and Arlais, ended their trial as postulants and became novices. The three girls had never really become close, having different interests, but Rhonwyn was pleased that they were halfway to attaining their heart's desire. Rhonwyn, on the other hand, was suddenly beginning to consider her forthcoming marriage. She would not meet her husband-to-be until just before they married. Such a thing was not unusual, her aunt said.
Now, as well as increasing her education, Rhonwyn was being fitted for her wardrobe. Her father had brought fine materials indeed for his daughter, and Gwynllian could not complain at him for being niggardly in either his choices or the quantity. There were silks and velvets and brocades as well as linen and fine cottons. The fabrics were rich and colorful. Rhonwyn was shocked, however, to learn women did not wear braies beneath their gowns.
'I've worn mine all along since you put me in a gown,' she told her aunt. 'What is substituted to cover the bottom?'
'Ladies wear nought beneath their chemises,' Gwynllian replied.
'Your skirts will cover all, I assure you, Rhonwyn,' the abbess said. 'It is quite acceptable.'
'I don't think it respectable' was the answer..
Gwynllian's lips twitched, but she managed to keep from chuckling. Her niece was more prudish than she would have expected of a girl raised in a fortress of men. Were it not for the child's continuing warlike tendencies, the abbess would have believed her a candidate for the nunnery, and not marriage. But Rhonwyn still rode daily outside the gates of the abbey, galloping along at a breakneck speed that had the porteress almost swooning at Rhonwyn's maneuvers.
On March the twentieth the abbey celebrated the feast of St. Cuthbert, who had been a bishop of Lindisfarne and whose fingernail paring now resided in its bejeweled gold box on the abbey's church altar. It was bruited about that the relic could cure a variety of minor illnesses, but as it was not a large memorial great miracles could not be expected of it. Rut the pilgrims came nonetheless to touch the gold box and pray to the saint. The abbey coffers grew at a modest but steady pace that day.
April first, the day marking Rhonwyn's sixteenth birthday, came, and Llywelyn ap Gruffydd appeared to reclaim his daughter. Her cool, elegant demeanor was slightly intimidating, but her manners were flawless. He was rather astounded to learn of all her accomplishments since her arrival at the abbey almost six months ago. He was equally appalled by the amount of baggage she would be leaving with, but accepted his sister's explanation on the matter and her dictate that he could not leave until the morrow.
Rhonwyn had been turned from a rough-speaking half-lad into a beautiful young woman. Her cropped hair had grown out. It was parted in the center and hung down her back, contained by a simple silver ribbon. Her bosom seemed larger, which was to his mind all to the good. Men liked a woman with plump breasts. She no longer walked with determined strides, but rather glided gracefully. The hands that had held a sword were now perfumed and soft, and the long fingers that bad so skillfully drawn her bow now plucked at the strings of the mandora in her lap while she sang softly The English could have no complaints about his daughter.
'You have worked a miracle, Gwynllian,' he told the abbess.
'Yes,' she agreed with a small, arch smile. 'She is more than well worth the price you have paid for her transformation. However, brother, I must be honest with you. Were Rhonwyn not an intelligent girl, none of this would have been possible. And you should show the men of Cythraul some appreciation, for they are the ones who taught her honor and duty.'
'While turning her into a rough, foul-mouthed soldier,' he grumbled at his sister. 'And that cost me a fortune to reverse. I am tempted to burn Cythraul down about their ears!'
'This is not someone else's fault, Llywelyn,' the abbess said sternly to her brother. 'This mishap was your failing. You know it, and you know why. Put it behind you, and tomorrow take your daughter to England to her husband. Remember, however, this time you travel with a
The morning of April second came, and Rhonwyn's baggage was loaded into a sturdy cart. She bid the sisters farewell, taking special time to thank those nuns who had given her all the knowledge she now possessed, particularly Sister Rhan and the abbess.
'Remember, my child, that you will always have a home and a refuge here at Mercy Abbey,' Gwynllian told her. 'May God bless you with happiness and many children.'
'Not too many,' Rhonwyn teased her aunt. 'But I do promise to save at least one girl for you, my lady abbess.'
With a chuckle, the abbess hugged her niece, kissing her on the cheek. 'Godspeed, Rhonwyn uerch Llywelyn,' she said.
Mounted upon Hardd, Rhonwyn rode through the abbey gates by her father's side. She heard the portals close behind her, but she was not sad. She was free from the constrictions of the nuns at last and off on a new adventure. They had turned her into a mannerly lady, but they had not tamed her spirit nor dimmed her enthusiasm for life. She had spent these past months in earnest study so she could be worthy of her father's name and her new position. Now she must turn her mind to Edward de Beaulieu, the man who was to be her husband. She couldn't even begin to imagine what he would be like, but over the next few days of their journey she tried.
Chapter 4
“The messenger has arrived from Prince Llywelyn, my lord,' the servant said, bowing to his master.
'Bring him into the hall' came the reply.
'Yes, my lord.' The servant bowed again, and backed away some feet before turning about. He returned only moments later. 'The messenger from Prince Llywelyn, my lord.'
Edward de Beaulieu glanced briefly at the rugged Welshman.
'My master and the lady Rhonwyn will be here by nightfall, my lord,' he said. Then he fell silent.
'I await them' was the brief answer.
Cold bastard, the messenger thought as he bowed to the lord of Haven Castle and departed the place to ride back to ap Gruffydd with the reply.
Edward de Beaulieu watched him go, and then absently took the silver goblet of wine his servant offered him, staring into the dancing red gold flames in the fireplace. He wasn't ready to marry, yet he would shortly have a wife. A wild Welsh girl half his age. But having no betrothal agreement with another and being located so conveniently near the border, the king had chosen him to be his sacrificial lamb in this treaty marriage. He had considered refusing, but Prince Edward had stared hard at him when the king announced his decision, and Edward de Beaulieu had known he dared not refuse. The prince was an enemy he was not interested in having.
When the Welsh prince had asked the marriage be delayed until this spring because his daughter was
