Author #2
“The king of England has stated his terms.” said Idwal, bowing to the lady Elen. She sat at the window seat of her private chamber, her young son Cynan asleep with his head on her lap.
Bravely she mustered a small smile, “Then you’d best tell me how the land lies.”
“He has claimed the title of duke of Gwynedd for his son, William, and has made two of his closest supporters into counts of Powys and Perfed-Dwlad.”
“He has denied my son his inheritance, then.” there was no shock in Elen’s voice, only weary resignation. Tenderly she stroked her slumbering child’s golden hair back from his face, “And what is to become of us, Idwal? Now my husband is dead, and his titles taken by the English, what of us?”
“The king demands you marry William Fitz Roi, the man he’s giving our home to.” Without thinking Idwal clenched his right hand into a fist, and for a heartbeat he thought he did; then reality came back and he recalled that his hand was gone, severed at the wrist in battle no more than two weeks back. “It’s not right!” he burst out, with passion born of both grief and impotent rage. His outburst caused little Cynan to stir in his sleep but the child didn’t wake; Elen gestured at her husband’s advisor to hush before he woke the boy. Idwal continued more carefully, but his passion still burned as strongly, “Marrying you to one of his bastards, it’s not right. It’s an insult to you, your lord husband, God rest his soul, and to our people! He’s not content with conquering much of Wales, but he must shame us too.”
“My hand in marriage will lend a hint of respectability to this, take the title and the widow both and mayhap the locals will not complain so loud.” Elen ducked her head, unwilling to let Idwal see the tears that brimmed in her eyes and threatened to fall.
Idwal’s heart nearly broke; he took a step forwards, “Lady, if in any way I can help…”
“There is nothing to be done; to the victors go the spoils. I can only hope…this William is kind to our people.” “And to my son…and to me.” she added silently.
One week later.
The clatter of horse’s hooves altered the prisoners to the arrival of their new lord and master, and unspoken jailor. Elen was lead out along with the other important Welsh folk in the castle, lined up by their English guards to await their lord’s pleasure. At the head of the armed column rode a hatchet-faced man of about thirty years, tall and stocky he looked a tough warrior and hard master to please. He drew to a halt, dismounted and looked about crossly for his squire. The young man hurried over, only to receive a few sharp words on his tardiness, and his master’s helmet thrust into his hands. The lord flung back his mail coif and pulled off his arming cap, baring his close cropped black hair; he looked no friendlier in this more peaceful guise.
Leaving his escort behind he strode over to the waiting Welsh, and headed straight to Elen and demanded curtly in French, “You are Helen?”
“Elen.” she corrected politely in the same language.
The Norman backhanded her across the face, hard. Idwal threw himself forwards, trying to get between his dead lord’s wife and her husband-to-be. William turned to face him, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, “Get back you mangy Welsh cur, afore I have you whipped like the dog you are.” Idwal didn’t understand a word of this, he could only speak Welsh, but the tone made the meaning clear. He looked to Elen for confirmation, and she gave a slight nod; Idwal stepped back to his place. The knight looked no happier, and asked Elen, “What is the matter with the dog?”
“It is against Welsh law for a man to strike his wife.” she explained, “And we are not yet married in any case.”
“But not English law, and that holds sway here now – Welsh law will soon cease to exist. Under English law a man may do as he pleases with his wife; as to our status, it matters not, you are my betrothed and so nearly as good as my wife. Your name is Helen, not some crude gurgling noise from savage’s throat, understood?”
“Yes, my lord.” Elen’s cheek was beginning to throb painfully, and she couldn’t risk upsetting this stranger any more; all of her husbands people were subject to his whim, and she had no reason to think he wouldn’t take out his bad temper on them.
“Good. The name suits you better, the Helen of legend was also a rare beauty, just as you are.” satisfied with his compliment William turned to face the other Welsh people gathered before him, and proclaimed loudly, “We slaughtered more than nine hundred Welshmen on the field of battle, we killed your lord, we took this land by the sword. However the sword need not rule it; learn to submit, as your lady has done, and you will find your lives tolerable. To become English is to become civilised, to resist is to die.” his next words were for Elen alone, brusque and to the point, “Translate it.”
Elen did so, her halting, limited French hampering her Welsh translation somewhat. As soon as she finished William began to talk again, “From this day forth you will give your children English names, your low born will learn to speak English as our low born already do, your high born will speak French, as our high born do. You will be taxed by English taxes, ruled by English law – you will; become no different to those in the very heart of England.” Again Elen translated.
William looked down at the five-year-old boy clutching her skirts, half hiding from these strange men, “Ah, the boy. How very fortunate he is here, it saves time.” he seized Cynan’s arm, and dragged him away from his mother, handing him off to one of his men. Elen made a frantic grab for her child, but William barred her way, catching hold of both her arms, telling her, “The king orders him taken to a monastery in the midlands; he will grow to become a monk. Surely you didn’t think he’d leave the brat here, to act as a centre to rebellion?”
Elen struggled, finding strength she never knew she possessed from her son’s frantic cries, “Mama! Mama!”, but it was not enough. William hit her again, so hard she would have fallen if he weren’t holding her; Idwal screamed a battle cry, and hurled himself towards the Norman. Letting go of Elen, William drew his sword; the blade flashed once, and Idwal collapsed into the dust, his head severed. Elen stared at his body, frozen by horror; her child’s pleas brought her around, and she started to run towards him, only to be grabbed once again by William, and her arm twisted behind her back near to breaking point. Through tear filled eyes she saw her son and his keeper ride out of the gate, the boy reaching back towards her with his short little arms, weeping.
