Raven's northern venture seemed to balance on a knife edge.
'What is it to me?' repeated Bran, his tone half-mocking. 'In truth, it is everything to me. I came here to ask your king to raise his war band and return with me to help lead them in the fight. Unless, of course, you would care to take the throne in his absence…?' He regarded Hywel pointedly and then turned his gaze to the others around the board. No one volunteered to usurp the king's authority, prisoner though he was.
'I thought not,' continued Bran. 'It is true that I came here to ask your king to aid me in driving the Ffreinc from our homeland and freeing Elfael from the tyranny of their rule. But now that I know that my best hope lies rotting in a Ffreinc prison-for all he is my kinsman, too-I will not rest until I have freed him.'
Bran's kinsmen stared at him in silence that was finally broken by Trahaern's sudden bark of laughter.
'You dream big,' the dark Welshman laughed, slapping the table with the flat of his hand. 'I like you.'
The tension eased at once, and Tuck realized he had been holding his breath-nor was he the only one. The two younger Cymry, silent but watchful, sighed with relief and relaxed in their elders' pleasure.
'It will take more than a priest's robe to fetch Gruffydd from Wolf Hugh's prison,' Meurig observed. 'God knows, if that was all it took he'd be a free man long since.'
The others nodded knowingly, and looked to Bran for his response.
'You have no idea,' replied Bran, that slow, dangerous smile sliding across his scarred lips, 'how much more there is to me than that.'
CHAPTER 11
Caer Rhodl
The wedding was all Baroness Neufmarche hoped it would be, conducted in regal pomp and elegance by Father Gervais, who had performed the marriage ceremony for herself and the baron all those years ago. Lady Sybil-resplendent in a satin gown of eggshell blue, her long brown hair plaited with tiny white flowers-made a lovely bride. And King Garran, his broad shoulders swathed in a long-sleeved, grey tunic falling to the knees and a golden belt around his lean waist, looked every inch a king worthy of the name. It was to Agnes's mind a fine match; they made a handsome couple, and seemed unusually happy in one another's company. Garran's French was not good, though better than Sybil's Welsh, but neither seemed to care; they communicated with smiling glances and flitting touches of fingers and hands.
The final prayer caught Lady Agnes somewhat by surprise. When Sybil's attendants-several of the groom's young female cousins-stepped forward to hold the carr over the couple kneeling before Father Gervais, Agnes felt tears welling up in her eyes. The simple white square of cloth was the same one that had been stretched above her head the day she married the baron and which had swaddled the infant Sybil at her baptism. Now it sheltered her daughter on her wedding day, and would, please God, wrap Sybil's baby in turn. This potent reminder of the continuity of life and the rich depth of family and tradition touched the baroness's heart and moved her unexpectedly. She stifled a sob.
'My love,' whispered the baron beside her, 'are you well?'
Unable to speak, she simply nodded.
'Never mind,' he said. 'It is soon over.'
No, she thought, it is only beginning. It all begins again.
After the service in the rush-strewn hall, the wedding feast began. Trestles and boards, tables, chairs, and benches filled the courtyard where a pit had been dug to roast a dozen each of spring lambs and suckling pigs; vats of ale sat upon stumps, and tuns of wine nestled in cradles; the aroma of baking bread mingled with that of the roasting meat in the warm, sun-washed air. As the newly wedded couple emerged from the hall, the musicians began to play. The bride and groom were led by their attendants in stately procession around the perimeter of the yard, walking slowly in opposite directions, pausing to distribute silver coins among the guests, who waved hazel branches at the royal pair.
After the third circuit of the yard, Garran and Sybil were brought to the high table and enthroned beneath a red-and-blue striped canopy where they began receiving gifts from their subjects: special loaves of bread or jars of mead from humbler households; and from the more well-to-do households, items of furniture, artfully woven cloth, and a matched pair of colts. Visitors who had made the journey from the baron's holdings in France brought more exotic gifts: crystal bowls, engraved pewter platters, a gilded cross, soft leather shoes and gloves, and jeweled rings with golden bands. Having given their gifts, the celebrants took their places at the long tables. When everyone was seated, the servants filled the cups and bowls with wine, and the first of many healths were raised to the married couple, often accompanied by a word or two in Welsh that none of the Ffreinc understood, but which brought bursts of laughter from all the Britons.
Then, as the servants began carrying platters of food to the tables, some of the groom's men seized the instruments from the minstrels and, with great enthusiasm, began playing and singing as loudly as they could. Their zeal, though commendable, was far in excess of their abilities, Lady Agnes considered; however, they were soon joined by others of the wedding party, and before a bite of food was touched the entire Welsh gathering was up on their feet dancing. Some of the groom's men hoisted the bride in her chair and carried it around the yard, and three of the bride's maids descended on the groom and pulled him into the dance. The servants attempting to bring food to the tables quickly abandoned the task since it was all but impossible to carry fully laden trenchers and platters through the gyrating crowd.
Lady Agnes, at first appalled by the display, quickly found herself enjoying the spectacle. 'Have you ever seen the like?' asked the baron, smiling and shaking his head.
'Never,' confessed the baroness, tapping her foot in time to the music. 'Is it not…'
'Outrageous?' suggested the baron, supplying the word for her.
'Glorious!' she corrected. Rising from her place, she held out her hands to her husband. 'Come, mon cher, it is a long time since we shared a dance together.'
Baron Neufmarche, incredulous at his wife's eagerness to embrace the raucous proceedings, regarded her with a baffled amazement she mistook for reluctance. 'Bernard,' said Lady Agnes, seizing his hand, 'if you cannot dance at a wedding, when will you dance?'
The baron allowed himself to be pulled from his chair and into the melee and was very soon enjoying himself with enormous great pleasure, just one of the many revellers lost in the celebration. Amidst the gleeful clatter, he became aware that his wife was speaking to him. 'There it is again,' she said.
'What?' he asked, looking around. 'Where?'
'There!' she said, pointing at his face. 'That smile.'
'My dear?' he said, puzzled.
She laughed, and it was such a thrilling sound to his ears that he wondered how he had lived without it for so long. 'I haven't seen that smile for many years,' she declared. 'I had all but forgotten it.'
The music stopped and the dance ended.
'Has it been all that rare?' Bernard asked, falling breathless back into his chair.
'As rare, perhaps, as my own,' replied the baroness.
He suddenly felt a little giddy, although he had only had a mouthful or two of wine. 'Then we shall have to do something about that,' he said, and reaching out, pulled his wife to him and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
'Tonight, mon cher,' she whispered, her lips next to his ear, 'we shall discover what else we have forgotten.'
The feast resumed in earnest then, and the happy celebrants sat down to their meal, and the day stretched long into the twilight. As the shadows began to deepen across the yard and the first pale stars winked on in the sky, torches were lit and the ale vats and wine tuns replenished. There was more singing and dancing, and one of King Garran's lords rose to great acclaim to tell a long and, judging from the laughter of his listeners, boisterously entertaining story. Lady Agnes laughed too, although she had not the slightest idea what the story might have been about; it did not matter. Her laughter was merely the overflowing of an uncontainable abundance of joy from a truly happy heart.
As the festivities continued into the night, Lady Agnes noticed that some of the groom's men had taken up places by the gate-three on each side-and as the musicians began another lively dance, she saw two more of the
