A Memory of Love by Bertrice Small Read Free Book Online Page A

small smile, “but he does not lie. I will do what I must to meet my obligations to you, prince of Wales, and I do not lie. ”

Gwynllian, the lady abbess of Mercy Abbey, looked down her long thin nose at her brother. They could have been twins, so similar were they in face and form. “And what, O prince of Wales, brings you to my house this day?” she demanded of him. She was a tall, thin woman whose long black robes and startling white wimple made her appear even taller and more spare. An ebony crucifix, banded in silver and adorned with a silver lily in its center, lay on her almost flat bosom.
    “Can I not come to visit my only sister without reason?” he replied jovially. Jesu! He hated having to beg.
    “You came six, or was it seven, years ago, Llywelyn. You were seeking funding for your never-ending disputes with the English or your fellow Cymri. I cannot remember which. We gave you what we could, and you were as quickly gone. Now what do you want, brother, and do not waste my time in prevarications and half-truths,” she said sternly.
    Ap Gruffydd reached behind him and drew Rhonwyn forward. “This is my daughter,” he said to his sister.
    Her mouth fell open, and then closed with an audible snap. “Well, Llywelyn, you have surprised me for the first time in years. You are certain, of course?” The abbess peered at her niece and immediately recognized her as kin.
    “Her mother was my mistress,” he began. “She gave me two children, first a daughter, then a son. She died attempting to birth a third child. I came by chance and found my children yet alive. I brought them to Cythraul. The lad, his name is Glynn, is still there.”
    Gwynllian's brown eyes swept over the girl at her broth-er's side. She hardly looked like an orphan of the storm. She looked hard and quite capable of taking care of herself. “How long ago did you leave your children at Cythraul?” she asked her brother, fearing the answer.
    He flushed guiltily. “Ten years ago,” he said.
    “Ten years and seven moon cycles,” the girl spoke up for the first time. The look she gave the prince was scathing.
    “Why bring her to me now, Llywelyn?” the abbess said.
    “I spent the summer in Shrewsbury, hammering out an agreement with the English king, Henry. My ally, de Montfort, is dead, and Henry's cub, Edward, is a fierce man. I thought to make a treaty with Henry so that his heir will leave us in peace. The pact was signed at Montgomery at the end of October. You know the customs, Gwyn. I offered the English my daughter in marriage with one of their lordlings.”
    “But when you went to fetch her she wasn't quite what you had expected, was she, Llywelyn?” The abbess chuckled. Then she looked to her niece. “What is your name, child, and what have you done to your hair? And do you know your age?”
    “My name is Rhonwyn uerch Llywelyn, and I like my hair kept short.”
    “She was fifteen April first last,” ap Gruffydd said.
    “Who raised her?” the abbess inquired.
    “Morgan ap Owen, my captain at Cythraul” was the reply.
    “Were there no women at this fortress?” the abbess exclaimed, shocked.
    “ 'Tis a fort in the Welshry. Women don't belong there,” ap Gruffydd told his sister.
    “No, they don't, yet you left your daughter there! Llywelyn, you are truly the most thoughtless and foolish man I have ever known, for all you have managed to become prince of Wales,” the abbess said angrily. “Why did you not bring Rhonwyn to me in the first place? What do you expect me to do with her now?”
    “Cythraul was nearer to her mother's cottage, less than a day's ride. To bring my children to you would have taken me almost three days of traveling. I had not the time.”
    “Could you not have instructed Morgan ap Owen to bring them to me, you dolt?” She swatted at him indignantly.
    “She isn't fit to be wed,” he said, his voice desperate.
    “Has she become a whore then?” the abbess demanded.
    “I am no man's