Lion Rampant by Bernard Knight

Author:Bernard Knight
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Headline

PART TWO

CHAPTER NINE

OCTOBER 1110

Nest sat by the open window, rocking the cradle absently. Her mind was far away, thinking of her other four children, whom she had not seen for almost ten months.

Little Llywelyn – Llywelyn ap Owain – had been born early in September, almost a month premature. Now it was mid-October and the dead leaves were blowing over the battlements of Din-geraint, heralding a winter full of war.

Nest could hear Owain’s strong voice out in the great hall, arguing with Morgan, as usual. Outside in the bailey, the tumult of men’s affairs clashed with her motherly cradle-rocking and with Rhiannon’s peaceful sewing on the other side of the bedchamber.

For Din-geraint was now a place of war, far different from that seemingly distant Christmas when the eisteddfod had been held – that fateful feast when Owain’s challenge had changed both their lives.

Now the place echoed with the clash of weapons, the neighing of the warhorses and the excited shouts of young men eager to mingle their blood with that of Norman and Fleming.

Nest sighed and looked down tenderly at the young baby in the crib. It was ironic that both this child and this lust for fighting had come directly from the desire of one man for her. For there was little doubt that all the turmoil in all this western part of Wales could be traced back to that lunatic venture of Owain’s against Cenarth Bychan.

His voice came again from the hall and she smiled wanly as she saw his strong chin and forehead in those of the sleeping babe. But for the yearning for her other children, she would have been quite content, though half Wales was up in arms because of it.

Yet the longing for little Angharad and Gwladys and the boys became unbearable at times. Llywelyn’s arrival had somehow heightened the hiraeth27 for them, instead of soothing it.

A sudden flurry of wind banged one of the window shutters against the rough frame and Nest shivered. That wind had blown up from Dyfed, passed over Penbroch and brought with it the icy hand of her husband, Gerald. Not a single word had arrived from him since the other children had been returned. Though Owain was now at war with all Normans, there were plenty of ways of passing news and messages, but nothing had been heard from the great castle in Dyfed.

She knew that Gerald would never rest until he was avenged for his ruined castle and his besmirched reputation – half the Norman nobles in Britain had laughed up their sleeves when they heard how Sir Gerald de Windsore had been forced to flee through a latrine shaft, like some cuckold caught in a lady’s bedchamber. Even so, Nest could not understand this complete excommunication of herself. It was weird and perverse and her straightforward mind never for an instant considered that Gerald believed that the whole affair had been planned in advance.

The shutter banged again and Rhiannon, afraid that the baby might be disturbed, sprang up to close it.

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