A Memory of Love by Bertrice Small Page A

you already have, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd? You have Wales and a strong England is your overlord. If you do not deceive them and keep faith with your sworn word, what future difficulties can you have, my lord? And how dare you ask me to break faith with the man who will be my husband? My mother never broke faith with you. Do you expect me to be any less than Vala uerch Huw? Ah, I despise you, ap Gruffydd! Now take me to the church so I may be quit of you!”
    “Your mother loved me and would have done whatever she had to to ensure my safety and well-being,” the prince said.
    “But I do not love you, my lord,” Rhonwyn told him.
    “I gave you life, wench!” he snarled at her.
    “And until today, that is all you have ever given me,” she snapped back at him. “I thank you for today, though, ap Gruffydd, for now I shall be free of you for all times!”
    “There is no arguing with you, is there?” he said, suddenly amused. She was so like Gwynllian. And how had that happened?
    “No,” Rhonwyn said quietly. “There is no arguing with me, my lord, prince of all the Welsh. Now,” she repeated, “take me to the church.”

Edward de Beaulie, dressed in a tunic of olive green and gold, awaited his bride in the church. He smiled with encouragement as Llywelyn ap Gruffydd led his daughter forward, placing her small hand in his. The bridegroom noted with pleasure how perfectly his wife spoke Latin as she made her responses and recited the prayers. When they were finally officially pronounced man and wife, he turned her face to him and gently kissed her lips. The startled look in Rhonwyn's green eyes surprised him greatly.
    “ 'Tis the kiss of peace between us,” he told her softly.
    “I have never been kissed before,” she responded.
    Then the reality of all the other things his conventbred wife had never done rose up to assail him. The king wanted the marriage consummated immediately lest Llywelyn take his daughter back on some pretext or another to use her in a more advantageous marriage. Yet it was painfully obvious that his bride was a true innocent. Still, he owed the king his allegiance and would do what had to be done, although he would do his best to be gentle with the girl.
    The day had been mild and sometimes sunny, but now as the evening approached, it was beginning to grow cloudy, and the spring rain was threatening. The little wedding party returned to the hall where a fine meal was served. There was lamb and venison and a lovely fat duck that had been roasted and garnished with a sweet sauce of raisins and figs. There was a blankmanger— chicken cut into pieces and mixed with rice boiled in almond milk, salt, and seasoned with sugar, then sprinkled with fried almonds and anise. Rhonwyn had never eaten it before, and she knew almost immediately that it would be a favorite of hers.
    There was fresh bread, sweet butter, and a fine sharp cheese. A bowl of new peas was offered. The cook had made a small subtlety of colored almond paste and sugar, a couple in a cockle being drawn by a swan. It sat upon a silver dish surrounded by green leaves. It was admired and praised by both the bride and the groom, who drank a toast to each other afterward with rich red wine.
    The day had waned, and the rain was beginning to beat against the shutters of the hall windows. Rhonwyn called for her mandora, and settling it in her lap, played and sang for her husband and the prince. She sang in both her own Welsh tongue—rich, mournful tunes her father translated for his son-in-law—and spritely, amusing songs in the Norman language that brought a chuckle to Edward de Beaulie. He was beginning to believe that his bride was the most perfect creature on God's earth, and looked forward to being alone with her.
    Finally when she had ceased her entertainment, he said, “Perhaps my lady, you will want to retire now.”
    She blushed, and ap Gruffydd chortled, saying, “You could not have a purer maid in your bed tonight, my son, had