Courtly Love 1

In a society dominated by men, women were often considered nothing more than chattel, breeders, and ornaments. Women were the weaker sex, inferior in strength, intelligence, and wisdom. As such, men were free to do with women as they chose, bartering them away for a castle or peace for the cheap price of a wedding ring. Love had no place in marriage, was hardly considered over the bargaining table. Marriage was merely a political strategy and nothing more.

There were rare occasions where love was found in a marriage, purely by chance and never by design. More often than not, a man and woman were partners, having children together and running the estate. It was also not uncommon where man and woman loathed each other, finding their pleasure elsewhere while doing their marital duties.

But before a marriage was made, the mind was free to imagine about love as the minstrels sang and the poets wrote.
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“Thank you for your continuous care for me, Mother. I have tried to do your will, to do as you did, but it is hard. I feel so alone sometimes. Please continue to give me strength, patience, and grace.”

As usual, the reply Angharad received was silence, but she did not mind, for just being in her presence gave her comfort as she stared into the smooth marble face of the Mother Goddess. Angharad kissed her fingertips, touched them to her bowed forehead, and rose to her feet. She took in one final breath of the scent of the jasmine incense, the scent of the Goddess. Anghared had adopted it for herself, wanting to be like the goddess in many, if not all ways. She emerged from the temple somewhat reluctantly, blinking against the bright light. A servant almost immediately came up to her, as if he had been hovering by the doors.

“My lady, a guest has arrived,” he said, “and your lady mother wishes you to be in attendance at once.”

Angharad nodded and began for the receiving room, wondering who would be coming to call in their isolated corner of the world. But whoever it was, she would be grateful for the company. She had lived here in this castle for all her fourteen years, only having visited court a few times before the war broke out. It was a very lonely life, and very isolated. She longed for companionship of someone her age.

Before Angharad entered the room, she smoothed her hair back and straightened her skirts self-consciously. Being in the presence of her mother‘s perfect form always intimidated her. Then she opened the door and froze. An older man stood with his back to Angharad, talking in a voice too low for her to hear to Marared. He still had full hair the color of straw, his back was straight, and his form fit and strong.

At the sound of the door, he turned. A smile spread across his face, his gray eyes looking her up and down. He reached a hand out to her, and she could do nothing but go to him.

“Angharad, you have quite grown up,” he said softly.

She tentatively gave him her hand and curtsied as he bowed over it. As soon as was polite, she snatched her hand from his calloused one. “My lord, it is good to see you again,” she said, determined to keep the waver out of her voice. She retreated to behind her mother’s chair.

“But I have something for you, my dear,” William said, following her and pulling her arm through his. He led her to the window seat where his bags sat. “Only the most beautiful for a beautiful young lady,” he said gravely, producing a sapphire ring.

Under normal circumstances, such a gift would have taken her breath away, for she had very few pieces of jewelry of any value of her own. But the giver was looking at her with a strange intensity that she did not like. She quickly looked down at the ring.

“It is beautiful,” she said listlessly.

Marared de Langor’s face was stony as she continued to look at William. “I wish you would not spoil the girl so,” Marared said coolly. “She is already running wild, just like her worthless brother.”

Angharad’s face was pale and drawn. She raised her head a little higher and straightened her shoulders. She was well aware of the sting in Marared’s words and knew that since her brother’s blood ran through her own veins, then they must share the same faults, the same sins that Angharad could not resolve herself from.

William chuckled. “Ah, but Marared, Hywel was not completely worthless. He is still worth the hundreds of pounds his father owed me, on top of the money he himself owes me.” Then he turned his gaze on Angharad. She was looking at the ring in between her delicate fingers. “That is a sapphire. I picked it up on a raid a long time ago, and when I saw it, I knew it was just for you because it perfectly matches those beautiful blue eyes of yours.”

“Thank you.” She did not look up.

“Angharad, fetch a servant for wine. Obviously he has lost his way.” Marared’s voice was crisp and cool.

She all but ran out of the room to escape. William watched her go, stroking his beard. Then he turned to Marared with a thoughtful look. “She still seems so young.”

The older woman gave a harsh laugh as she settled herself on the settee. “I have heard that this never overly bothered you.”

He merely shrugged. “I am but a man.”

“I am surprised you dared step foot on Altairian soil again,” Marared said swiftly. “The king swore he would hang if you did so. And anyone who harbored you. Why are you here?”

A gleam came into the man’s bright eyes as he smirked. He unhurriedly poured himself a glass of wine and leaned against the table. “Why, to see my dearly departed friend’s wife,” he replied innocently. “I have always felt a keen sense of responsibility towards you ever since Owain’s death.”

“Stop playing games with me, William. There would only be a handful of reasons. One is that my son is dead, or he has been imprisoned. But since you have such a cheerful disposition, those reasons can be discarded. The third would be that the king has pardoned Hywel. Or you.” Marared’s eyes widened as the young man’s smile broadened at her last words. “Gods, you can’t be serious?”

“But I am,” he said as he chuckled. He smoothed back his sun-kissed fair hair. “Griffith always was weak for a weeping woman. My mother went to him before the entire court on both knees with tears streaming down her face and beseeched him to pardon me. She said that Rhys had been my cousin, and I had only done what I felt was my duty and honor, and Griffith surely could see that the loyalty I had shown Rhys could be transferred to him.” He grinned before he took a sip of wine. “I have sworn homage to Griffith and am in full favor, am now the earl of Montyth once more. Also, my lord father was third cousin to Griffith, and the king always does look out for his own blood.”

Marared was a woman to not easily be surprised, much less at a loss for words. But now she was utterly speechless. William enjoyed watching the formidable woman struggle for words as he leaned against the settee. She claimed William’s wine glass and drank deeply.

“Gods, I cannot believe it,” she murmured. “Eleanor managed to do that? I could almost believe that she has the Golden Tongue of Aldwyn. Did he not talk his way out of death before the Black God?”

William smiled and nodded.

“And where is my son? I am surprised he is not at your door, demanding some kind of pardon of his own!”

“He is still across the sea in Syen.”

Marared observed William through narrowed dark eyes. “But he will come, for he has ever been one to muddy the waters. And then what will you do? It will look like a plot to Griffith. And then what good will your mother’s tears be?”

“He will not come,” William said firmly. “I believe he has acquired quite a life there with the wine and women. He has even found himself an heiress, on the condition that he pay homage to the Syeni king and do not go back on his word or ever return to Altair. He also owes me a great deal of money. He will not be coming back.”

“I see.” No emotions passed over Marared’s face at the news that her son might possibly never return. “And now what happens?”

William shrugged, but a smile tugged at his lips to give him a boyish eagerness that belied his thirty-eight years. “You have one of the richest lands in the country. Surely you could not handle such a vast amount of land alone, being a woman. A man will have to become regent of it. Dispute and disruption will break out, and you know how Griffith hates confrontation and discord; he will want to avoid it, especially if there is an easier solution.”

Marared raised a dark and elegant eyebrow. “Which is?”

William was beginning to smile again. “Angharad is how old now? Thirteen?”

“Fourteen,” Marared answered curtly.

“She is at a suitable age for marriage. She cannot be denied a future just because Owain and Hywel did wrong. This land is her inheritance since her brother’s claim is void. Griffith may easily be swayed into thinking it is the right choice, but only if you speak to him as a mother.” William challengingly held her gaze with icy blue eyes.

Marared’s face still did not change as his words now hung heavily between them. “Who is to be her husband?” she asked at last.

William bowed.

“I see.” Marared swiftly rose from the settee and faced William. “I suppose it is time for me to act the mother. And this, thank the gods, may be my last time.”

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That night, Angharad was summoned to her mother’s chambers. She nervously smoothed down her dress, then licked her palms to smooth her dark hair down. It was never as sleek and beautiful as Marared’s.

She entered Marared’s chambers to see her mother sitting in a chair before the fire. Marared made a regal figure, could have been a queen sitting on her throne while holding court. Angharad went to her hesitantly and slowly.

“Stop dawdling,” Marared said sharply and beckoned her child to her. Her steely black eyes looked her daughter up and down. Try as she might, she could not warm to this girl child. Hywel had ever been her favorite, and his rebellion had been all more of a betrayal to her heart. Marared could see her husband looking back at her with those bright blue orbs of her daughter’s. She turned her head and motioned for the girl to sit.

“You are old enough now to realize your responsibilities. Every woman has the duty to marry well to do her family honor. You have no father or other man to do the duty to find you a husband. So it is up to me. And I have chosen you a husband.”

Angharad’s eyes widened as she absorbed this information. She’d seen many girls and young women married before, and oftentimes, they were married to a man much older than they. She could not suppress the shudder that coursed through her body as she envisioned a short, portly man with graying hair, yellow, rotten teeth, and dry, wrinkly skin. She’d always imagined having a household of her own, a husband, and children to love. But she’d thought she would have a few years yet.

Marared was annoyed by the girl’s failure to respond. “Do you not wish to know who your husband is to be?”

Angharad nodded mutely, her body tense with anticipation.

“I have spoken with William, and he is desirous to marry you.”

Williams name echoed in Angharad’s ears as she stared at her mother. The blood drained from her face, and she felt, for the first time in her life, that she might faint.

“Truly, Mama?” she murmured, reaching out to the bedpost to stead herself.

“Yes.” Marared saw the paleness and shock in her daughter’s face. “He is a good match for you, for he has ample holdings, great wealth, and many connections. He will provide for you well, and you in turn will perform your wifely duties to him. Your father would have wished it."

Anagharad did not, could not, believe that her father would wish for her to marry a man his own age, but she prudently held her tongue.

"That is all. You may go.”

“Good night, Mama,” she said absently, then left the chambers.

Marared stared after her daughter and shook her head. The foolish girl would soon learn that duty came above all else, above the heart and her own wants.

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It was an especially cool night and Angharad shivered in her thin nightgown and robe. She stared into the light of the candle, then kissed her fingertips and touched them to her forehead. For the past three weeks, she had lit a candle to pray for deliverance from the goddess. If she were to belong to William, she felt that her soul would die.

And then she lit a second candle, again kissed her fingertips and pressed them to her forehead. Weekly, she lit a candle for her father, for she felt it a daughter’s duty to remember and honor him, though he had died a rebel.

Angharad had few memories of her father and brother; their faces had become hazy and blurred. She barely remembered that her father had been about as tall as Marared, and he’d had a square face with bright blue eyes, and dark, unruly hair, always spread about shoulders. He’d always had a brief smile for her or a gentle pat on the head. And that was as far as her memories stretched for him. Her memories of Hywel were even fainter. She remembered he’d been tall and lean, like Marared. Being ten years Angharad’s senior, he’d had little interest in a girl-child.

Owain and Hywel had left to go to war six years ago. The old king, Mereduth, had had no children except for the one son, Griffith, from his second marriage. Many had not acknowledged Griffith as the heir for his blood was tainted by his mother’s foreign blood. Mereduth had had a nephew, Rhys, and Rhys had been at the king’s right hand until the end. Many looked to Rhys to be the heir. So the country had been thrown into civil war.

William had been a close friend to Owain, a favorite drinking and dicing companion. It was William who cast his lot in first with the rebels, and trusting his friend, Owain had thrown in his lot as well. Even as a child, Angharad had felt uncomfortable around him. He was a quiet and keen observer, those eyes the most expressive part of him. And they had always lingered on her a moment too long for her liking.

War had been waged, leaving the country in despair and destitution for four years. Griffith and his men had lived like outlaws on the run, but with his brilliant hit and run tactics, he’d won the war. In the final battle two years ago, Owain had been killed and had died as a traitor. Hywel had escaped and fled across the sea to Syen where he’d been in refuge for the past year.

Angharad felt no remorse for their absences in her life, for she had not known them. But at times, she wished they had returned more often during the war, if only to have their presence in the house, for being alone with Marared was unbearable.

After the war, William had come to their household before fleeing the country, begging for fresh horses, food, and clothing. At first, Marared had been wroth, ready to have her soldiers string him up and deliver him to the newly anointed king, Griffith. But with a smooth tongue and humble yet steely will, he convinced Marared to hold off her guards and provide him with what he’d needed.

As he’d sat at their table that night, eating more than anyone she had ever seen, his eyes continued to shift onto her, like a wolf on a rabbit. His voice was deep and cold, commanding. And when he’d smiled at her as she led him to his room, she felt her insides freeze. He told her tales of her late father and brother fondly, promising her father that he would look after Marared and Angharad. Never a man to back out of his word, William had promised that he would do what he could. But he'd gone away soon enough into exile.

“Mother, please save me,” Angharad whispered. She clenched her hands together, William's ring digging into her flesh. “You always look out for your daughters, and I pray that you will continue to look after me. I know that it is my duty to marry whomever my mother chooses for me, to give my husband sons and be a good wife, but please, I cannot marry William! I know he will kill me, will possess every being of me.”

Angharad suddenly heard a commotion outside at the gates. She ran to a window of the temple and peered out of it into the dimly lit courtyard. A voice was shouting urgently to see the Countess and the guards immediately hastened to allow him entrance. She knew the voice. It was William.

Angharad flew out of the temple to cross the cold courtyard to the main hall. William was already at the table, slumped in a chair in exhaustion. His wheat-colored hair fell into his eyes and he focused solely on the plate of food before him. He was greedily gulping down a glass of wine and inhaling the food. Marared was sitting across from him with her long fine hair braided and a robe covering her slender figure. Both were speaking rapidly in low voices.

“Where will you go?” Marared asked as she poured William more wine.

“I do not know yet,” he replied through intervals of chewing and swallowing. “I have a Palasari kinsman whom I could stay.”

Marared swore under her breath as she jumped to her feet and began to pace with agitation. “I cannot believe Hywel. Damn him!” she cried. Her face was hard and lined with bitterness. “I should have named him Rhodri.”

William gave her a quizzical look.

“Rhodri muddied the purest river of the world and there were poor harvests and droughts for years.”

“Ah, yes. But you forget that as Rhodri’s eyes burned with sand and his mouth was parched with thirst, he went to clean his eyes and drink the water. He then went blind and choked on the muddied water.”

Marared’s mouth twisted unpleasantly. “Indeed, I had forgotten that. My memory of the lore of the ancient people is rusty.” Then she suddenly scowled. “Tell me what he said.”

William did not say anything for a few moments, did not need to ask who “he” was. He took the last bite of his food took another swallow of the wine. “Our plan had reached the Syeni court and and he was angered by this. He was offended that I had not asked his permission to marry his sister. Also, he would not allow me to steal his rightful inheritance. The next day, I was forewarned by my mother that Griffith had discovered Hywel’s visit and I was a traitor.”

Marared shook her head as she collapsed into her chair again. “Gods, we are never prepared for the betrayals in life,” she murmured, “especially those by our own blood.”

“I cannot stay much longer, what with Griffith’s men fast on my heels. And I would not want to endanger you or Angharad.”

“Angharad.” Marared repeated her daughter’s name as if in a trance. “The future of these lands will once more be in the hands of a weak king.”

William nodded his head reluctantly. “Yes. There is no greater regret I will have, though, than that of disappointing Angharad.”

“But is that not the lot of a woman?” Marared said bitterly. “Is she not merely a pawn in your game, William? A pawn with a strategic location to check and mate the king and the other barons.”

William merely shrugged.

Angharad was grasping the frame of the door to keep from falling. She felt cold sweat trickle down her back and she shivered. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest and she felt dizzy. The Goddess had heard her prayers.

William wearily pushed himself from the chair. “Thank you, but I must quickly go. My men and the horses have surely been refreshed now.” He took Marared’s hand and kissed it. “I am sorry, Marared, for the way things have turned out. I so would have liked to have your daughter. She is a tempting little morsel.”

“It is my cursed son who is to blame. Gods, he is more like Owain than I ever realized. Clinging on to a false dream.” She stood up and, much to Angharad’s surprise and obviously William’s, she embraced him. “May the gods give you wings, William.”

Angharad retreated from the door and back into the darkness. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, trying not to allow a smile to cross her face or tears of joy to fall. She did not realize the door had opened until someone spoke her name. She turned swiftly to see William, his tall form faintly outlined in the dark by a torch.

He seemed to be waiting to steal her soul, like a dark specter. “Angharad,” he said softly.

Even in the dark, those eyes seemed to pierce her soul. She did not move as he came towards her.

“It seems I must go,” he said, when she made no move to speak. “There are so many things I wish I could say, or show you.” His eyes glistened, moving up and down her body. She felt he could see right through her nightgown and robe. She pulled the robe more tightly around her shivering body.

“Yes,” she uttered. “But you must go.”

He grabbed her hand and smoothed his thumb over her palm, his fingers trickling up her slender wrist. She tried not to shiver, but he seemed to take her reaction as a positive one, and bowed his head down to kiss her palm, his warm lips lingered.

“Perhaps one day the king will not be so mad or ungenerous,” William murmured, “and I will return to claim what is mine.”

What seemed ages later, he was riding off into the night, leaving Angharad feeling cold. She wiped her hand on her robe where he had kissed it.


"Courtly Love 2"