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  DARK AND BRIGHT

  Sons of Rhodri~Book II

  by

  Anna Markland

  Kindle Version

  What Readers Are Saying about Anna’s books...

  ...a treasure chest of stunning medieval tales. Markland combines impeccable research with a rich and lyrical writing style that makes her stories a pleasure to read over and over again.

  Gerri Russell, author of To Tempt a Knight

  Anna Markland is an incredible writer who writes great books.

  Lois Lavrisa, author of Liquid Lies.

  A note to my readers...

  This is the second book in a series entitled Sons of Rhodri. These stories grew out of The Montbryce Legacy Series. If you have read the Legacy books you will already be familiar with many of the characters in this book. If not, you will enjoy meeting them for the first time. This is the story of Rhodri and Rhonwen’s eldest son, Rhys.

  At the end I’ve included a glossary of characters and a lexicon of foreign words and phrases used in my books.

  I hope you come to love my characters as much as I do!

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  Dedication

  Other Books by Anna

  Contact Information

  Copyright Information

  Glossary

  Lexicon

  And all that's best of dark and bright

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  ~Lord Byron

  For Nancy

  ~my daughter and my biggest fan

  CHAPTER ONE

  Powwydd, Wales, 1106

  Rhys wasn’t a warrior. Not that he lacked courage. As a youth he’d accompanied his father, the legendary patriot Rhodri ap Owain, on forays against Norman holdings, both in England and against the expanding Norman presence in Wales itself. But his passion wasn’t for rebellion. He would leave that to his father and brothers. His longing for Welsh independence from foreign control was no less than theirs, but he was his mother’s son and had inherited Rhonwen’s love of peace. He believed that diplomacy and the making of strategic alliances was more likely to achieve what they all sought.

  Gradually his reputation as a peacemaker grew in the Marches, the contentious border area between England and Wales. Certainly the Norman Earls of Ellesmere, father and now son, recognized his talents. The first Earl, Ram de Montbryce, had favoured negotiation over confrontation. He’d developed a healthy respect for Rhys. When Rhys’s sister, Carys, married Baudoin de Montbryce, now Second Earl of Ellesmere, Rhys foresaw the power it would bring his family. He encouraged the marriage, unlike his brothers, Rhun and Rhydderch.

  Now, dire news had arrived that the Earl of Chester’s men had apprehended Rhun and Rhydderch. Condemned for rebellion, they were to be hanged in a few days. However, Rhys saw an opportunity in this disaster to build another alliance. His father was aging. As his eldest son, Rhys would become Prince of the commote of Powwydd on his father’s death. He would need to marry and provide heirs.

  Having learned long ago the importance of contacts in high places, he’d recently been made aware that the Earl of Chester had become responsible for his late sister’s daughter, Annalise de Vymont. She was of marriageable age and the Earl would thus be expected to provide her dowry, since his brother-by-marriage had died penniless several sennights before.

  Rhys had no desire to marry. He enjoyed his bachelor life. He was more than familiar with the story of his parents’ meeting and falling in love at first sight, and of Baudoin and Carys’s passion for each other, but doubted the same would happen for him. Better to spend his life working towards the freedom of Wales through his efforts as a diplomat than to be distracted by love.

  However, duty demanded he marry. He resolved to make the Earl an offer for his niece. She would give him the sons he needed and he would provide a secure home for her in the llys at Powwydd.

  He despatched messengers to Chester to request a meeting. The Earl no doubt expected it. They’d negotiated before. As the imposing castle came in sight, perched atop a hill around which the River Dee swept in a gradual curve, he imagined what it must have been like before the Normans came. Chester had been the last Saxon town to fall to the Conqueror and only great brutality had forced it to its knees. In the intervening years the stone motte and bailey had replaced whatever the Saxons had built.

  Rhys had dressed in his finest clothes, as befitted his status. He’d chosen the bright red woollen tunic that came down to his shins. His mother always said red became him. It was his father’s favourite colour. The slits in the sides revealed a black undertunic. His knee length hose were also black, tied with embroidered ribbon, a gift from Carys. He wore them for luck. His tasseled boots were of the softest leather. He hoped his appearance would emphasize the seriousness of his overtures. He felt comfortable. But it wouldn’t be a good idea to underestimate Hugh d’Avranches. The Earl had become so obese he could barely walk and the Welsh called him Hugh Vras. But he was also known as the Wolf, because of his predatory nature.

  Rhys didn’t expect to be greeted warmly as he entered the private sitting room. Though he was confident the Earl respected his abilities, a Norman would always consider a Welshman his inferior. He was given a polite welcome, as nobility obliged. Rhys thanked his host, then came straight to the point. “Milord Earl, I request the honour of becoming betrothed to your niece, Annalise de Vymont.”

  The Earl, clad all in black from his boots to the jaunty hat perched precariously atop his bald head, arched his brows, the folds of his fat forehead doubling. “Hmph! I’d expected you’d want to discuss your outlaw brothers. I won’t free them.”

  Rhys waited. The Earl hadn’t invited him to be seated. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword in an effort to control the urge to shift his stance. Better to be still. He inclined his head a smidgen as a sign of respect, but not defeat. He’d shot the first bolt—had it hit its target?

  Chester fidgeted, running his pudgy fingers over the intricately carved arms of his massive chair, eyeing Rhys.

  He wonders what I’m up to!

  He didn’t want to give the impression he was staring, though such obesity did tend to draw the eye. He let his gaze wander over the opulent solar. The llys at Powwydd was well appointed, but here he was surrounded by extravagant luxury. Rich tapestries softened the lime-washed wooden panelling. Two ornate oaken chests sat against the walls. Glass filled the frames of the ornate window slits. Wolf skins warmed the floor. Perhaps that wasn’t a good omen. The Normans had made life comfortable for themselves.

  The Earl coughed and shifted his considerable weight. The chair groaned. The page tried not to squint as a foul odour filled the air. “My niece? What do you know of her?”

  Despite the reek of flatulence, Rhys resisted the urge to grimace. He’d gambled Chester wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to hear more about the offer. “As you’re aware, I’ve never met her, milord, but she’s of marriageable age and I’m confident she will make a good wife. As the future Prince of Powwydd I’m not without noble standing and can offer her a comfortable life.”

  The caressing of the carvings became a drumming of the fingers. Suddenly the Earl gripped the chair and struggled to rise. The startled page rushed to aid him but Chester waved him away, eventually coming to his feet, albeit shakily. “You know she doesn’t speak Welsh, or English for that matter? She’s only recently arrived from Normandie after her father’s death.”

  Chester was swaying, holding on to the arm of the chair. It was imperative for success that Rhys not betray his nervousness. “I’m aware of it. I’ve made it my business to learn Norman French. I believe in communication. I’ll teach her my language. I’m sure she can learn, can’t she?”

  The Earl slumped back into the ch
air as abruptly as he’d risen. Rhys breathed a sigh of relief and hoped the beads of sweat on his upper lip weren’t obvious. The Norman’s leg twitched, but the man looked directly at Rhys. “Annalise is a beautiful, intelligent girl. She’s also very independent—had to be, growing up in the household of my wastrel brother-by-marriage,” he explained, bitterness in his voice. “Her mother died when she was born and her father never got over his wife’s death. He didn’t give Annalise much tendresse.”

  Rhys squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. “I can’t offer her love, but I can offer fidelity and honesty. You know me as a man of integrity.”

  The Earl’s leg twitched faster, the fingers drummed incessantly. “She’s not a wealthy woman. I will have to provide her dowry. What would you expect?”

  Rhys didn’t hesitate. “The release and pardon of my brothers.”

  The drumming stopped. The old Earl smiled. He stared at Rhys. Rhys waited. Finally, the Earl said, “I can’t release two brigands bent on attacking my lands. What guarantee do I have they’ll cease their raids?”

  Again Rhys answered directly. He’d always found that the best approach. If one dallied in responding, your adversary doubted you. “You have my word. They will never again attack the lands of the Earl of Chester.”

  He held his breath, expecting the Earl to demand more—the cessation perhaps of all hostility against any Norman territory—but all he said was, “And the only thing you would get out of the bargain is a wife?”

  Rhys smiled inwardly, confident he’d won. “A wife who is of your family, my lord Earl. Surely such proud Norman connections can’t harm my family and will only further the cause of peace? My sister is already married to the Earl of Ellesmere.”

  The Norman chuckled. “So, the sons of Rhodri ap Owain will have only the Earls of Hereford and Shrewsbury left to harass in the Marches? I see merit in the proposal. I’ll have my steward prepare a chamber for you to stay for a few days. On the morrow we’ll draw up the betrothal contract and you’ll meet Annalise. Welcome to my family, Lord of Powwydd.”

  He held out his hand and Rhys strode forward to take it. The two men clasped hands to seal the bargain and Rhys inclined his head once more. “And I bid you welcome to mine, Lord Earl of Chester. What of the arrangements for my brothers?”

  The Earl turned to the page. “Send a guard to the cells to have them brought here.”

  ***

  Rhys paced, waiting impatiently for his brothers to arrive. The redheaded twins were firebrands who could easily upset the plans he’d carefully laid out. The Earl still hadn’t offered him a seat, which he was glad of. Pacing eased his nervousness.

  When the pair entered they looked nervous, suspicious of what was afoot. The tension left their shoulders when they caught sight of Rhys, but they didn’t smile in greeting. They eyed the Earl, still overflowing his grand chair. Rhys embraced them. They were dirty, dishevelled and wild eyed, but all their limbs were intact.

  “Rhys!” Rhun ventured, embracing his brother. “What are you doing here? What’s happening?”

  Rhys kept his voice calm. “You’re free. Both of you.”

  “Free?” Rhydderch said loudly, extricating himself from his brother’s embrace. “On what conditions? What have you given up for us?”

  Myself!

  “You’re the dowry of my newly betrothed bride.”

  Rhun put his hands on his hips and snarled. “Bride?”

  Rhydderch mimicked his brother’s stance. “Dowry?”

  Rhys opened his arms in an expansive gesture. “Be happy for me. I’m to wed the Earl’s niece. And you’re to swear that you’ll never again attack the lands of the Earl of Chester.”

  His brothers spluttered, shaking their heads. Rhys raised his hand in a barely perceptible gesture learned from his father, Rhodri. “I’ve given my word you’ll agree to this. It’s not negotiable. You will swear.”

  Turning to the Earl he said, “My lord, your sword.”

  The Earl beckoned to the page to fetch his sword. He shuffled to the edge of his chair and held the weapon before him, point down, his hand on the hilt. The twins would never agree to kneel before the Norman. Rhys took Rhun’s right hand and placed it over the Earl’s, then did the same with Rhydderch, and the two men made their oath through gritted teeth. He suspected they were wishing all the while they could wipe the smug look off the Earl’s fat face, take the sword and cut off his arrogant head.

  True to Norman form, the Earl offered the hospitality of his castle to the twins, but they refused. Rhys was disappointed, but not surprised. “Will you not stay for my betrothal on the morrow?”

  “We won’t watch you betrothed to a Norman,” Rhydderch whispered between clenched teeth. “It’s bad enough Carys is married to a Norman.”

  Rhys stood between his brothers and stretched his arms across their shoulders. They walked to the door together. Speaking in Welsh, he said, “It’s the only way to peace for Wales. One day I pray you’ll see that. It’s unfortunate you didn’t take the Earl up on his offer. You both need a bath.”

  Rhun snorted. “You’d need one too if you’d spent days in the cells of Hugh the Fat.”

  It was as well the Earl didn’t speak Welsh. When he was certain the Norman could no longer see them, Rhys kneed his brothers in the backside. “Go now,” he commanded.

  The twins looked at each other, then at Rhys. Would they retaliate? Their faces told him they were considering it. Then they shrugged, gave him a mock punch in the arm and strode off, their arms around each other’s shoulder.

  Rhys smiled at Rhun’s parting remark. “Imagine, poor Rhys, married.”

  Rhydderch’s howl of laughter echoed through the halls as they made their escape.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Annalise was nervous. Her uncle was apprehensive about whatever it was he had to tell her. He fidgeted with his sleeves and coughed several times. She suspected it concerned a betrothal, fully aware her uncle would be busy arranging one. She was of marriageable age and couldn’t expect to live forever as a burden to her relatives.

  However, she was taken aback when he summoned her to his sitting room and explained her betrothal to the Prince of Powwydd. A knot tightened in her belly. “A Welshman, oncle?” she sighed in disbelief, her hopes and dreams of marrying a handsome Norman noble slipping away.

  She’d grown up with her father and older brother, Charles, neither of whom had any time for her. Her father blamed her for her mother’s death and drank enough ale every day to render himself into oblivion. His resentment rubbed off on his son who, as soon as he was old enough, was sent to be fostered with another noble family to learn the art of war. Annalise longed for love. Now she was to be given to a man whose tortuous language she couldn’t speak, a barbarian. She’d heard it said that people who spoke the Celtic languages were agents of the devil.

  Her father’s excesses and inefficient management had impoverished their small estate in Normandie. Her brother was only too happy to hand over responsibility for her to their uncle. He would be hard pressed to restore the estate to anything close to what it once was. Annalise didn’t envy her brother that task and hoped he would prove equal to it. She hadn’t wanted to stay to help him. He’d grown into an embittered man not known for his patience.

  She wanted to argue with her uncle, to complain and rant, but there would be no point. Her fate was sealed. She had no choice but to agree. “What of my dowry, milord oncle?” she murmured, aware that anything he provided for her would be more than she could hope.

  The Earl hesitated. He beckoned to his page who helped him rise and walk over to the hearth. It was the first time she’d seen him on his feet since her arrival. He stared into the cold ashes of yestereve’s fire, leaning heavily on the page. She was worried. Her uncle was a decisive man, not known for reticence. He didn’t turn to look at her when he spoke. “Your dowry doesn’t entail any lands or titles, Annalise, but is something your future betrothed wanted very much.”

&nb
sp; She was puzzled. “I don’t understand. What of value am I bringing to the marriage?”

  The Earl coughed, deep in his throat. “He asked only for the freedom of his two brothers.”

  She frowned, suddenly feeling very cold. Had she heard correctly? “Freedom?”

  Her uncle averted his eyes. “They were awaiting execution in my cells.”

  Annalise was stunned. She swallowed a gasp and coughed. Her eyes watered. A dagger had been plunged into her heart. “I was traded for barbarian brigands?” she murmured. “He’s a brother to outlaws?”

  Her uncle beckoned. She went to him and he put his heavy arm around her shoulders. It should have been comforting, but it wasn’t. He stank of sweat and decay. “Annalise, your marriage to the Prince of Powwydd will bring me strategic advantages. His sister is the wife of the Earl of Ellesmere. I’ve secured a pledge of freedom from attack for my territory. Since Alain’s death, my heir is yet a boy and I’m not long for this world. Rhys ap Rhodri is a noble, upright man. I’ve learned in my years in the Marches that the Welsh are not barbaric. Your future husband does you honour in his choice. To be blunt there are not many among the nobility who would wish to wed the daughter of an impoverished and disgraced Norman baron.”

  Annalise fought the urge to cry, though tears welled and her throat was dry. The Earl had unburdened himself of responsibility for her and feathered his own nest at the same time. She clutched the folds of her dress. “As you say, milord, I have no choice. I’ll obey your command and sign the betrothal documents on the morrow. May I take my leave now?”

  The Earl took her hand. “My dear niece, Rhys ap Rhodri is a good man. He’ll treat you well. You need not fear him. I wouldn’t betroth you to him if he wasn’t worthy.”

  “I know,” she said resignedly. “It’s evident love is not his motive, since he’s never met me. I suppose every maid dreams of a loving husband.”