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While Dragonetz was recovering, Estela gleaned as much information as she could, flitting from kitchen to battlements: carrying messages; unloading and storing provisions; fetching firewood. She made herself useful, if not indispensable, and she ensured that John Halfpenny did likewise.
Wyn was a law unto himself, disappearing among his countrymen and re-appearing with a genial apology. Telling him she needed him for translation was like catching water in a sieve, so she sent him to Dragonetz instead. That would make it harder for the Welshman to absent himself and at least one of them would be able to learn more of this difficult language. She was picking up the words she heard most often but ‘Come here, wench!’ and ‘Take this to the kitchen’ were unlikely to help Dragonetz much in his political aims.
She had been mistaken in thinking there were no women in the castle. There weren’t many and they worked hard by day, and just as hard at night, finding their way onto privileged, shared mattresses in the Hall. Farts and snores were not the only noises that disrupted others’ sleep and only the Lords of Deheubarth bothered with a curtain for some privacy. Estela wondered where they found the energy. She was exhausted by the end of each day and sleep was the only pleasure she needed.
It was the women she could identify first, putting names to weather-beaten faces. Aliénor’s ladies would have swooned at the very thought of putting down their embroidery to labour as these women did. As Estela drew another bucket of water from the well, she spared a wistful thought for the last time she’d enjoyed a bath, with other women filling the tub, squandering the precious liquid. Such luxury was unimaginable here.
Luckily, her hands had toughened on the journey or the blisters would have crippled her. Coarse they might be, but the women were tough and practical as Welsh ponies. Which was how the men treated them. Some of the women were lucky enough to service one man only, others were shared. The former guarded their man fiercely and fights were common but brief and apparently without rancour. Survival took priority and that required working together.
When the men returned from wherever they’d raided during the day, Estela watched which woman greeted which man, memorised the links, thought about the rank of the men, and of the women. She had been called ‘whore’ more than once in her life and now here she was, with whores for companions. She should despise them but how could she, when she worked alongside them every day? Sinful they might be, but, by God, they laboured as hard as any man.
Listen to her! She was blaspheming as easily as any soldier! Her next confession would be long, and would have pleased the vile priest she’d suffered in Zaragoza, and who would have lectured her on all women being sinful. The Welsh priest who rode with Rhys and Maredudd might be more practical, but Estela was in no hurry to speak to him. She would leave confession until she had more of their language, and no doubt even more to confess. For now, she would keep her thoughts and prayers private.
When the horn announced the men’s return, followed by hooves, jangles and a clamour of voices, the women’s work stopped. Or rather changed, as they tended to their men, then to the ponies. Bright-faced with success, the Deheubarth men nevertheless brought back injuries and gaps in their ranks. Joy at a man’s return, wailing at his absence, were the daily prospects for the women, who gathered the news of battles like wildflowers, for contemplation.
Foremost among the party were always Rhys and Maredudd, riding together, first to dismount into their women’s embrace. Maredudd favoured Enid, a bouncy girl whose curves were barely hidden by her badly-laced dun gown. When the men were not around, most of the women behaved differently, seeking more efficient ways to work rather than to swing their hips with greater allure. Enid, however, was the same bright spirit, hiding nothing and changing nothing, whoever she was with. Estela found her easy company and perhaps Maredudd did too.
Rhys’ choice was a darker character, in looks and personality. Mair’s hair was black as Estela’s but curled wildly and cropped short, as was the Welsh habit with both sexes. Estela found it strange to see the blunt cut fringes hiding their foreheads. Back home, this would have been considered both ugly and lowborn but here, lords and peasants alike all wore this chopped style.
Mair was forever tossing her head like a pony, to shake her fringe out of her eyes, a restless soul. Had she not been living and working the peasant life outdoors, her skin would have been creamy white. It had freckled, rather than browned, in the little sunshine that graced this dreary climate.
Curious, Estela had asked Wyn about her and been told not to annoy ‘that one’. Rumour said she’d killed Rhys’ previous girl but ‘an accident in the woods’ was always possible, and Rhys had taken a fancy to her, so folk let it be.
What kind of people are these? Estela wondered, where a murder is taken so lightly. She stayed away from Mair but watched, as the girl flung herself onto Rhys or flirted her hips as she led his pony to water. Wyn had also said that nobody kept Rhys’ attention for long. He liked a woman well enough but he liked a new one best of all.
As Dragonetz regained enough strength to walk, and then train, in the courtyard, he drew much feminine interest. Estela was aware of women glancing at her, wondering how hard she’d fight for her man. Very, was the answer, and she would stop work to go over to Dragonetz, rest her hand lightly on his arm. If he was sitting, she’d sit beside him, put her hand on his thigh, glare at any women within her line of sight. Mine her eyes told them, in the language she’d learned over the preceding days, one that needed no lessons in pronunciation.
She’d not thought of herself as innocent but she had never lived in a soldier’s camp before. And none of these women were wives. Except herself, by Dragonetz’ words. Wife carried status and along with the messages her eyes flashed, kept the women away from Dragonetz, who merely found the unspoken rivalries amusing. He would catch her possessive hand, take it to his lips, murmur what looked like sweet nothings to the envious onlookers. What he actually said could be anything from ‘Chicken for dinner would be wonderful,’ to ‘They should have more men on the north wall. Approach by sea would be slow.’ Or, of course, he might whisper sweet nothings, and make her blush.
They were indeed on the coast, but not upriver in Caerfyrddin as they had intended. Instead, they were not far from where they had crossed the mouth of the River Tywi, in Llansteffan Castle, well south of the stronghold where the Welshmen had left their wives and children as they struck out against their enemies. As to who those enemies might be, Estela was confused but, thanks to Halfpenny and Wyn, Dragonetz was able to explain.
The brothers wanted their land of Deheubarth back, and had made the most of the Franks fighting each other in the wars between Henri and Stephen. Neither King had time or troops to spare, to help their Marcher Lords hold the lands they’d stolen from the Welsh. Rhys and Maredudd were on a campaign to retake all of south Gwalia. They hoped to drive the Marcher Lords out of the southern and eastern tract of land where they’d settled, expanding from coastal bases. Caerfyrddin and Llansteffan were only two of the fortresses the brothers intended to claim for themselves.
First, they would deal with their old ally and old enemy, their uncle of Gwynedd. Uncle Owain had brought Gwynedd, the north of Gwalia, to their aid as they fought for their inheritance. But the treacherous northerners had then claimed Ceredigion to the east, for themselves. Ceredigion was part of Deheubarth and now was the time to remind Uncle Owain that his nephews were men grown, who would not leave him in peace.
‘So,’ Estela asked Dragonetz when they were alone. ‘How will you make yourself indispensable?’
‘Sing,’ was the answer.
‘Then so shall I!’
‘And then Talharcant can sing too.’ The sword named Bladesong in Occitan had been sheathed longer than its wont. ‘Wyn tells me that the first steps to recovering Deheubarth lie to the west. Rhys wants to oust his uncle from Ceredigion first; Maredudd prefers to gain the coastal castles held by the Franks.’
Estela realised what was not being said. ‘If Maredudd has his way, you’ll be in the attacks against Henri’s vassals, your peers.’
Dragonetz’ face was grim. ‘It will happen all the same even if we recover Ceredigion first.’ We noted Estela.
He continued, ‘That’s why I needed to know more, to judge what was my duty before I ride out.’
‘And you know now?’
He nodded.
‘The Marcher Lords have no respect for Henri. They claim ever more land, war against each other, would wipe out the Welsh if they could. They’ve never met their Liege and he’s been too busy claiming a future kingship to worry about Gwalia. Aliénor read it aright; Henri needs a balance here, not a victory. The Welsh can contain the overweening Marcher lords and those same lords can be forged into a weapon against the Welsh, should Henri choose, until all make oath to their Liege and keep it.’
Estela knew her knight. ‘You seek balance, again, as in Les Baux.’
‘It is the only way. Those who seek to kill all their enemies will waste their own lives in a task that only creates more enemies.’
‘Then it doesn’t matter whose choice you follow, Maredudd’s or Rhys’, you ride with the Welsh and help them win.’
He nodded. ‘And whatever they decide, the brothers will ride together. That’s why they win. I shall help them win more swiftly and, I hope, with honour.’ That was why he looked grim. Not at the choice of enemy but at the probable manner of victory. He had never ridden with Welshmen before.
His next words, brutal, confirmed her guess. ‘They do not take prisoners but they do take heads.’
‘Because of their mother?’ Estela remembered Rhys’ bitterness.
‘I think not,’ Dragonetz replied. ‘It is their way, of old. It might even be that the Princess was beheaded as a message, that Franks would treat the Welsh by their own customs. I witnessed such a response in the Holy Land. But there is no honour in cutting off the head of a brave lady who has led her men and lost a battle!’
‘The man who did it – is he still alive? Will it be his castle that the Welsh attack if they choose the Franks next?’
‘No, Kidwelly is too strong and Maurice de Londres is dead.’ He hesitated. ‘Estela, I wish you had not come with me.’
‘Nonsense! If I hadn’t, you might not still be alive. And I would not have heard the Welsh tales and songs.’ Or ways to pull a woman’s hair and scratch at her eyes. To lift his dark mood, Estela asked him what they should sing for the Lords of Deheubarth and she told him the style of song she’d heard from the women.
The prospect of something other than manual labour motivated Estela to work twice as hard and earned her an invitation to bake ‘bara’. Baking bread was work she could enjoy and she sang as she explored the stores. The other women had no idea what she was singing but they smiled at the sound.
A girl with dimples and brown curls touched Estela on the arm, pointed to herself. ‘Blodwen,’ she said and she pointed to her mouth, said something that made the others nod in agreement. Then she started to sing and Estela understood. Blodwen was a singer too. Estela had no idea what the words were but the sound was sweet and rousing. A couple of women brushed tears from their eyes.
‘Hiraeth,’ one told Estela, her mouth twisting.
When Estela saw Wyn again, asked him what the word meant, and his mouth twisted too. ‘It is a Welshness,’ he told her. ‘You do not feel it. The love and longing for your homeland. The pleasure of knowing such love and the grief of loss.’
‘Hiraeth,’ repeated Estela. Wyn was wrong; she knew that feeling well.
RHYS WAS DELIGHTED at Dragonetz’ offer of entertainment but told him, ‘We take song and verse seriously. A woman can play the harp or crwth nicely as you please but the voice is an instrument for men. I’d not waste my time listening to a woman. You’d not demean your wife by letting her make a fool of herself.’ It was a statement, not a question.
However tactfully Dragonetz relayed the Lord’ response, Estela understood all too well. Her confidence drained away. Even if she did sing, would these barbarians recognise her skills? When they didn’t know the words, would they hear only her woman’s voice that they had been taught to underestimate, to ignore? And if she sang, she would be thought immodest (a whore again!); if she did not sing, she was a goodwife, invisible – or worse, a mere table decoration, and in a place so barbaric there were no tables! Where they served themselves, and sat on their bedding rushes to eat from trenchers that were more like stone than bread. There was no risk of the trenchers crumbling into their beds! The hiraeth washed over her, for civilisation, for home, for Musca, Gilles and Nici. This place was so other.
She didn’t know her head had drooped until she felt her chin lifted gently, Dragonetz eyes steady on hers. Those had been his very words, what felt like a lifetime ago. ‘Do you want to be a table decoration?’ he had asked her, when she was his student and felt a failure, missing notes and spoiling phrases. And she had worked so hard, learning everything he and Malik could teach her! She had come so far!
‘What’s a crwth?’ she asked, summoning a weak smile.
‘As far as I can work out, an instrument with strings, a bit like a rustic lute but held more like a viol. Lord Rhys has promised us the finest music of his court when he returns to his seat. Wyn says the women and children are in Dinefwr, in the north of the realm, so the softer artisans and musicians must be there too.’
He was not fooled by her smile for a second.
‘No,’ he said to her softly. ‘My wife will not be demeaned by public performance. Because Estela de Matin will be the best singer in that Hall, whichever Welshmen the Lords call upon to strut their superiority.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘You’ve known worse audiences and we are together this time. This is what we’ll do.’