I. THE GIRL FROM GWENT
I often feel as if I am watching the world from a distance. Rarely do the inhabitants pass a glance my way, and yet I am sure I am here for a reason. I find myself awaiting the dawn with a hard resolve knowing that choices will be made this morning that will far outweigh my normal routine of child-rearing and sewing.
Today I step into a new role. Today I am not just Morwenna, daughter of Idnerth. Today, I am Queen of the Britons.
Around me, the household is beginning to awaken from their long night’s slumber, and I can hear the cooks bustling to prepare breakfast for the court. Sitting by the window, I have a wonderfully clear view of the first rays of sunlight as they break over the hills on the distant horizon. I often sit here, welcoming the beacon of the new day, but now I find myself willing the sun to reverse its course. I am too young, and yet I already know too much to pretend to be less than I am.
My husband, Bleddyn ap Cynfyn, is a good man and he takes his responsibilities as the Prince of Gwynedd very seriously. Our families have been close allies for decades, and I had grown up hearing tales of the bravery he had shown in battle, larger-than-life in the mind of a young girl from Gwent. I remember the first day I met him -- despite his greatness, his manly heart was broken, for he had lost not just one wife but two. He had been married to his first love for thirteen years, but the fever took her while he was away on campaign, and she died before he could return to her side. Shortly thereafter he took a second wife, and although she was young and strong, she died in childbirth along with her baby girl. Although the people loved the Prince, there were still the rumors – old wives’ tales of “the curse” placed upon him and his household. He had lived silently in his grief those many months, reluctant to take yet another new wife.
One evening my father, being a perceptive man and a good friend to the Prince, took me to dine with him at Bleddyn’s Llys at Aberffraw – a princely court more than befitting his high station. I was instantly drawn in by the serenity of the grounds, and by the quiet strength of the lavish main hall. However, it was the Prince himself that truly took my breath away. He was still strikingly handsome, despite his middle-age. His wavy dark hair had small streaks of grey at the temples that served only to increase his dignity. His smile was warm, but his eyes were distant, lonely, and seemed to ever be seeking solace. Being young and filled with romantic notions of courtly love, I was sure I could make those eyes smile again.
And so our courtship began and ended a few short months later with a simple but lovely wedding. We had barely grown accustomed to being husband and wife when we discovered I was already pregnant with our first son, Iorwerth. What a joyous time it was, welcoming a new baby into the household, at least it was for me. Bleddyn was so proud, and with the light back in his eyes, he had the exuberance of a man twenty years younger. Only two years later, our second son, Rhiwallon came kicking and screaming into the world full of life and energy. Yet despite our great happiness, there were others present at the Llys who were not so pleased, though I would not discover it until it was too late.
I soon learned to turn a deaf ear when the servants would compare me to the women who had previously been the matrons of the home, but I was terrified to think that Bleddyn was also comparing me to the other women who had shared my place in his bed and his heart. The fear of failing to measure up inspired me to work harder to create what I thought would the ideal home for the husband I wanted so badly to impress, but I often found that while in name I was woman of the house, I was definitely not in any position of authority.
When on the battlefield and on official business, Bleddyn commands with a strength and valor that draws men to him. He is a highly successful leader and truly a hero to the people. However, at home, my dear Bledd is often so comfortable. He is content to leave matters of politics at the door and just watch the boys chase the geese. It is a pity his older children do not do the same.
While his previous wives may have been angels, their children most certainly are not. Bleddyn was been blessed with a boisterous brood of eight children before I was brought into the family, their ages ranging from sixteen to two years. The younger ones were dear to me and they never hesitated to climb into my arms, but the older children were understandably defensive of bringing another stranger into the home to be their “mother.” My two beloved sons were like stabs to their half-brothers’ hearts, as they grew to fear that the babies would replace them in their father’s eyes. However, Bledd loved each of his children, no matter which of his wives had brought them into the world.
The abuse and the scheming of the older children has only grown, and over the past week I have felt an increase in tension throughout the corridors of the LLys. Bleddyn’s eldest son and heir, Maredudd, is particularly hostile towards me, being only a few years younger than myself. When he was not harassing my little sons, he would brag to the other young men about what he’d do to me after his father was dead. I was shocked when I overhead one of the servants repeating his boast. Bledd was not home to quell the disturbance, having left some days earlier to go hawking with his brother in Powys. Something dreadful was going to happen; I could feel it, and I had no idea what it was. Last night I resolved in my heart that today would be the day to take the reins of the household and bring it to order. For if nothing else, there
would be peace in my home.
A clatter in the courtyard below brought my attention back to my current surroundings. Scolding myself for the wasted time, I stretched my arms, feeling the tightness in every muscle. I stood, straightening my hair and the wrinkles in my gown. Praying to God for strength, I reached for the door latch. Hesitating to open the door, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, reminding myself that today I would no longer be Morwenna, the self-doubting young Welsh girl. I would be Morwenna,
Queen of the Britons.
~*~