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“Properly seasoned!” crowed Davy. “That’s a good one. I’ll try it tomorrow.”
“Only don’t let your mother catch you.” Con pulled a face for Myfanwy’s benefit. “Or she may guess where you picked up the trick. Then she won’t be any too pleased with either of us.”
“I don’t think she was any too pleased with you from the minute you came, Master Con,” teased the girl. “What spite has she got against you? When you were young, did you used to tag along and pester her the way Davy does me?”
The question tripped Con up. “I reckon I might have caused her a spot of bother in my time.” Was that how Enid had remembered him—as a troublesome tag-along?
They reached a copse of beech trees that bordered a large field within sight of the maenol. Though both children knew the chore was only an excuse to get them out from underfoot, Davy and Myfanwy quickly set to work, competing to see who could collect the biggest load of twigs. Con joined in their game, scrambling to assist whoever fell behind.
Would he ever know this kind of simple fun with children of his own? Con wondered as he dropped a fistful of twigs onto Davy’s pile. Fatherhood was a matter he’d never spared much thought before.
With good reason, he reminded himself. A child would tie him to one woman, possibly even to one place. That prospect held little appeal for a wanderer of his ilk. It wasn’t all selfishness that made him shrink from the notion of having a family, either. Con knew his own shortcomings too well to fool himself into thinking he’d make a good father.
It was one thing to gambol about with Enid’s youngsters, more like a fellow playmate than anything. He wouldn’t want to bear the ongoing responsibility for keeping them fed, clothed, sheltered and protected from harm. Yet, for the first time in his life, Con acknowledged the possibility that his solitary existence might be lacking something important.
They had amassed two fine piles of kindling when their uncle called from the gate, “Time to…eat.”
“Coming, Idwal,” chorused the children.
Davy lifted his heap of twigs only to have half of them fall to the ground again. His lower lip thrust out.
“Here.” Con unfastened his cloak and spread it on the ground. “Make a great bundle and I’ll carry it back for you.”
Pleased with the idea, the children shifted both piles onto Con’s cloak, than ran off ahead as he hoisted the light but bulky burden over his shoulder. He got halfway to the open gate when some ponderous movement out in the field caught his eye. A stocky youth manoeuvred a plow, pulled by two yoke of oxen. The beasts strained fitfully as the lad now and then poked the rumps of the hindmost pair with a stick.
“Boy!” Con shouted. “Did you not hear Idwal? It’s time to eat.”
The lad shook his head. “I want to finish this furrow before night falls, if I can only make these shiftless brutes pull as they ought. At the rate they’ve been going, this field won’t be fit to sow until midsummer.”
Con had forborne to criticize. He recalled all too well what it was like to have everyone picking on him and finding fault. But hearing something like a plea in this plowboy’s gruff young voice, he set down his load of sticks and vaulted over a low stile into the half-tilled field.
“Let’s see if between the two of us we can’t get this furrow plowed before supper’s all eaten.” Con rubbed the oxen’s brows between their long horns and crooned a few words of nonsense to them.
He held out his hand to the boy. “Give over that stick of yours, will you? Let me see if I can’t put it to better use.”
Beckoning with the slender rod until he drew the beasts eyes, Con began to walk backward, calling them to follow in the singsong litany he’d learned as a boy. “Hai, you oxen! Come, then, come. Plow you this last furrow, there’s the fine brawny fellows. Then we’ll set you free to drink and graze and rest.”
Straining into their yolks, the oxen followed him, as the astonished plowboy clung to the heavy share they pulled. A foolish flame of satisfaction flickered in Con’s heart that he hadn’t lost this homely skill he’d once despised.
When they reached the end of the furrow, he patted the beasts on their sweaty hindquarters and accepted the boy’s profuse thanks. Then he carried the children’s kindling into the maenol and deposited the great load of twigs in the bin beside the kitchen door. Finally he made his way to the hall, and tried to join the company unnoticed.
It didn’t work.
He had barely set foot over the threshold when Enid left her place at the high table and bore down on him. Con braced himself for a scolding at best, eviction at worst.
“Conwy ap Ifan, where have you been skulking?” She slipped one slender but capable hand into the crook of his elbow, drawing him toward the table. “Idwal and I have been waiting on you. Though I’m not so hungry, he has a sharp appetite from all the hunting and fishing the pair of you did today.”
Struck as dumb as any ox, Con let himself be led to the slightly raised platform. To his further amazement, Enid slid onto the bench beside her brother-in-law and pulled Con down next to her. Con peered the length of the table, surprised to see that Father Thomas had been relegated to the company of Gaynor and Helydd at the far end.
“Will you play and sing for us again, tonight?” Enid passed Con his round of lagana while Idwal heaped his own with meat. “Everyone enjoyed it so, last eve.”
“I…suppose.” Con heard his words struggle out in a halting manner, more like Idwal’s speech than his own glib prattle. “If you…like.”
What had gotten into the woman? If she’d greeted him with such warmth when he’d first arrived at Glyneira, Con would not have been surprised. But after last night’s frosty reception, this morning’s quarrel, and that abrupt kiss in the washhouse, Enid’s sudden change in manner left him puzzled and suspicious.
“Don’t look at me like I’m apt to bite you, old friend.” Enid longed to hug herself with glee—her plan was beginning to work already. If Con looked skittish now, imagine how fast he’d flee when she pretended to mistake some scrap of hollow flattery for a marriage proposal. “You and I got off on the wrong foot yesterday and I beg your pardon, for the fault was all mine.”
She had bungled things badly, Enid owned to herself. For a start, she should never have kept Con at arm’s length, seating him at the far end of the table, then spiriting the children away to bed and never returning to the hall for a word of good-night. If she meant to keep Con from finding out anything she didn’t want him to know, she must stick close to him, telling him only those things she deemed safe for him to hear, acting as a buffer against slips like the one Gaynor had made last night.
As she reached to scoop a bit of meat onto her bread, Enid let the back of her hand swipe against Con’s. When the touch set a giddy sensation wafting within her, she reminded herself it was only a ruse to drive him away.
“I was that surprised to see you again after so many years, it took me aback. I hope you’ll forgive me for being so ungracious, and let us start over.”
Con choked on a hasty bite of his bread, but gave a vigorous nod as he coughed to clear his throat.
“I knew you would.” Under the table, she pressed her knee against his, enjoying Con’s unease at the same time she felt uneasy over her enjoyment of the sensation. “You never did hold a grudge.”
No, he hadn’t been constant even in that. Was it any wonder he’d found his way from one woman’s bed to another? Perhaps it was a mercy from heaven that Con hadn’t stayed at her father’s house and been made to wed her, rather than running off to play at war and freeboot around the Holy Land. Sooner or later he’d surely have strayed, and broken her heart worse than his going had.
Howell hadn’t been without his faults, God rest his soul. But at least he’d never been unfaithful to her.
“So you’re content to have me stay awhile at Glyneira?” Con shifted her a sidelong glance as he helped himself to more meat.
“How could I expel a guest who’s claimed the hospitality of my house?” How, indeed? “You’re welcome to remain with us for as long as you wish, Con.”
Then she muttered as if she did not mean him to overhear. “Maybe even longer.”
Perhaps Con didn’t hear…or perhaps he didn’t understand. For the first time since he’d stepped into the hall, the watchful tightness in him seemed to slacken. “I’ll keep out of your way, I promise. And I’ll do all I can to help you ready the place for the more honored guests you’re expecting.”
“You and Idwal have already made a grand start at stocking the larder.”
Idwal had been following their talk with silent attention as he ate. Now he ventured a comment. “Con is a fine…shot.”
“But you knew where to find the game, my friend.” Con shrugged off the praise. “And how best to harry it into range of my bow. The pair of us make a well-matched team.”
Though he chewed on his food and made no reply, a proud, self-conscious smile spread across Idwal’s broad face. When Con lowered his hand onto the bench, Enid fumbled for it and gave his fingers a quick squeeze that had nothing to do with her plan for ousting him from Glyneira.
“Do you mind the time you took me hunting up in the Gwynedd hills and got us lost?” she asked Con.
Hot and sweaty from walking, they’d stripped off their clothes and cavorted in a stream like a pair of otter pups. When Con had swiped her bare flesh in play, the sensation had felt different than any time he’d touched her before. From that day, her girlish fondness for him had taken on an ever sharper edge of womanly desire.
“Lost? Not a bit of it. I knew where we were well enough.” Con took a long thirsty swig from his cup of cider. “It was all those hills and trees between us and home that caused the trouble.”
She could laugh over it with him now, marveling that the years had not tarnished his easy confidence. At the time, she’d feared they might wander the wooded hills until they starved. Worse yet, she’d worried over how her father would rage when, and if, they found their way back.
Fortunately they’d stumbled across a narrow brook, followed it to a larger one, and followed that until it emptied into the River Conwy some distance downstream from her father’s estate. There had been scoldings and punishment when they got home after sunset, none of which had dimmed Con’s enthusiasm for their next adventure.
That night before he’d gone whistling off to his bed in the hayloft, he’d tickled her on one cheek with the tip of her braid as a feint to let him swoop in with a kiss on the other. “All’s well that ends well, eh, Mistress Worrywart? Think what fun you’d miss if you didn’t have me around to make life exciting for you.”
She might have told him that she didn’t crave excitement the way he did, but what would’ve been the use? Con had needed a steady diet of thrills the way most folk required meat and drink, air and sleep. He’d never been able to fathom how anyone might feel otherwise.
“I’ll skin that brace of conies we bagged to line your winter hood.” Recalling Con’s parting words to her on that eventful night, Enid’s belly churned.
She’d treasured that hood lined with soft rabbit fur—one material gift from a lad who’d had so little to give, apart from the elusive magic of his company.
Here he sat beside her again after all these years, a man grown, one lean hip pressed snug against hers, eyes glittering with infectious merriment which time had not dimmed. That old bothersome magic stirred again just beneath the surface of Enid’s skin, prompting her feet to dance, her voice to sing and her heart to skip in a fast wild jig.
A coal burst in the hearth just then, with a loud crack and a shower of sparks. Almost like a warning that she might be playing with fire.
Enid gave a guilty start at the noise and pressed her hand to her bosom.
Casting her a wry look, Con chuckled. “You’re strung too tight, woman. I imagine it’s a great responsibility to be master and mistress both of Glyneira. You need to take your ease now and again. It’s not good for a body to work and worry all the time. Physicians in the East say it’ll put the humors out of balance, then you’ll be more apt to fall ill.”
From Enid’s other side, Idwal spoke up. Was it only her fancy, or had her brother-in-law grown more talkative in the short time since their guest had come? “You should…take her fishing…Con.”
“That wasn’t quite what I meant.” Con stuffed his mouth with meat and bread, as if the familiar act of eating suddenly required his full concentration.
“I think it’s a fine idea,” Enid said. “I can hardly remember the last time I was out in a coracle. Don’t they say a change is almost as good as a rest?”
The little round boats favored by the Welsh might be the perfect vehicle for her flirtation with Con. Out on the river they’d be well away from any curious eyes and ears. The whole experience might bring back pleasant memories from their youth when they’d paddled about on the upper reaches of the River Conwy in Gwynedd.
Besides, Glyneira needed to lay in a greater supply of fish against the arrival of Lord Macsen and his party. And while they were out there, close and alone, Enid would cast her net for Con ap Ifan.
When the time came to leave his place at the table and take up his harp, Con couldn’t decide whether he was sorry…or relieved.
What had gotten into Enid? Her explanation sounded sensible enough—that she’d been too surprised by his sudden arrival to greet him as graciously as she ought. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to swallow it whole.
The Enid he’d known would never change course in so drastic a fashion, especially in the blink of an eye, like this. She’d never been given to impulsive action, like he was. And once she’d made up her mind, she clung to it with calm tenacity that no amount of reasoning or arguing could sway. Often enough, Con had thought the elfin slip of a girl more stubborn than any massive ox he’d ever coaxed to plow a furrow.
Picking up his harp, Con spent a few moments tuning it. Then, with his eyes fixed on Enid, he began to play and sing.
“Blackbird, oh, blackbird with your dark silken wings. Blackbird with your beak of gold and your silver tongue. Fly for me to a distant shore and ask there how my beloved does.”
Whenever Con ap Ifan had crooned this ballad during his long voluntary exile from the land of his birth, Enid’s face had always been the one to rise in his mind.
This spring evening, as he plucked his harp by her fire and drank in her slender, dark beauty with a thirsty heart, the words of the second verse took on a more urgent meaning for him.
“One, two, three things are past my skill. One, two, three things I cannot master. How to count all the stars in heaven on a winter night. How to polish the silver face of the moon. How to fathom the mind of my beloved.”
He’d known Enid longer than he’d known any other woman, yet she remained an enigma to him. Perhaps that was part of the spell that had held him in her power for so many years. The woman was a challenge and a mystery wrapped within an enchantment.
As the last note of the song died away, Enid’s face paled to the cast of winter moonlight while her eyes darkened to the bottomless black of the night sky between the stars.
Why?
Perhaps if he could puzzle out the riddle of her, aided by his hard-won knowledge of the world and his pleasantly acquired understanding of women, he could free his heart from her gossamer hold. But did he dare run the risk that she would snare him so tight, he might never want to escape?
Chapter Five
Perhaps her plan wasn’t such a wise one, after all, Enid mused the next morning as she hurried through her usual duties, and prepared to set off fishing with Con. Her last scheme involving him had gone so disastrously wrong. Rather than forcing Con to stay and her father to let them wed, that one night in Con’s arms had cost her what little freedom she’d possessed.
Last night, when he’d stood by her fire and crooned “Blackbird, oh, blackbird,” his gaze had never once left her face, growing more fervent whenever he sang the word beloved.
What was there about blue eyes that made them look so sincere? Could it be the color of the sky on a clear day, or water undisturbed that let one see far and deep?
To how many other women had Con sung those words in the past thirteen years, while she had been nursing a wounded heart, raising their son, and trying to salvage a life for herself and her children out of a marriage she hadn’t wanted? How many other women had he caressed with his candid blue gaze, convincing them and perhaps himself, that the passing attraction he felt for them was love?
She could not afford to be fooled into believing he cared for her. No matter how blue his eyes, how engaging his smile, or how sweet his kisses.
Intuition warned her that this strategy to get rid of Con might turn on her, like a high-strung horse in battle or an untested coracle over swift water. By spending time with him again, trying to lure him into some rash words of commitment, she ran the risk of stirring up her old feelings for Con.
Behind her, Enid heard a familiar jaunty whistle. One that made her breath quicken and her mouth go dry, hard as she willed them not to.
“Are you ready, then, Enid?” Con called. “I feel as though I’ve already put in a full day’s work dancing before your plow. I could do with a few hours out on the water to cool me down.”
The sound of his voice made Enid feel the need to cool down as well. A faint flush prickled in her cheeks and the verge of her hairline grew damp. She told herself not to be so foolish. She was a widow, past her thirtieth year, after all. A mother of three children, not some green girl without the sense to know how much bother a man could be.
This man more than most.
Spinning around to face him, she warned herself not to heed the glimmer in his eyes.
“There’s always plenty to do around a place this size,” she replied in a tart, teasing tone. “Most of all in the spring. But I can spare a few hours to fish with you.
“Come.” She held out her hand to Con. “I’ll show you where we keep our coracles.”
A qualm of doubt passed across his face, but fled as quickly as it came. He reached out to clasp the hand she offered, with the humid grip of a man who’d put in a good morning’s work.
“They make the coracles a little different here than they do in Gwynedd,” she said as they scrambled down the bank to a wide stream that flowed east to join with the River Teme. “It’s to do with the frame, mostly. They handle much the same, I’m told. It’s been that long a while since I netted fish with coracles, I hope I can remember how.”
Con gave her fingers a squeeze. “You mustn’t suppose I’ve had the chance to practice off in the Holy Land all these years. Never you worry. There are some things a body remembers long after the mind believes it’s forgotten. You only need to make a start and not think too hard about what you’re doing, then it’ll all come back to you.”
He couldn’t have tailored an opening for her much better than that. To ignore it would be disdaining a heaven-sent opportunity. Enid thrust aside all her misgivings about this plan.
“You mean like that kiss you gave me yesterday in the washhouse?” She stopped and turned, so Con would have to slam into her. “Did our bodies remember what our minds had tried to forget?”
She failed to reckon with his swift warrior’s reflexes. Con checked his step in midstride, bringing him within a finger’s breadth of her, yet not touching except for the hand she clasped.
“That…could be.” Con’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he thrust his free hand through the tangle of brown curls which spilled over his brow. “I told you I didn’t do it on purpose. I told you I was sorry and that I’d not let it happen again. Can we not just drop the matter? Pretend it never happened?”
“Did I ask for your apology?” Enid lofted an encouraging glance at him as she rubbed the pad of her thumb over the base of Con’s. “Did I demand your assurance it wouldn’t be repeated?”
Her questions appeared to unbalance him as her abrupt stop had failed to do.
“Well now, I don’t know that you did in so many words. But surely…with Lord Macsen coming, and the two of you…”
Enid lowered her voice. “He hasn’t arrived yet. Nothing’s been settled.”
Before Con could summon an answer, she tugged him on down the hill to where three of the light, bowl-like boats rested upside down on the shore. They had frames of ash wood over which reeds had been woven, then made waterproof with a coating of linen soaked in pitch. An admirable little craft, a coracle could navigate the shallowest water, then be hoisted over onto a boatman’s shoulder for an easy walk between streams.
