Border Bride. Deborah Hale

though a skilled but invisible hand plucked at the cords of his heart, making warm, resonant music such as he could only echo with his harp.

      “Here’s a tune I often sang to myself in far-off places when I grew lonely for home.” Con plucked out the bittersweet melody he’d played so often. “Llywn Onn.” “The Ash Grove.”

      “The grand Ash Grove Palace was home to a chieftain, who ruled as the lord of a handsome domain.”

      Around him folks swayed to the music and began to hum haunting harmonies.

      As he went on to sing of the chieftain’s beautiful daughter who had many rich suitors, no amount of will could keep Con’s gaze from flocking to Enid.

      “She only had eyes for a pure-hearted peasant, which kindled the rage in her proud father’s chest…”

      That hadn’t been the way of it, of course. Enid had been too dutiful a daughter and too practical a creature ever to brave her father’s displeasure by choosing a lowly plow-boy over the nephew of a prince.

      “I’d rather die here at my true love’s side than live long in grief in the lonely Ash Grove.”

      As the song wound to its beautiful, poignant conclusion, was it his foolish fancy, or some capricious trick of the firelight…? Or did a mist of tears turn Enid’s eyes into a pair of glittering dark amethysts?

      What of it, good sense demanded, if a woman who’d been recently widowed got a little teary over a plaintive song? Only a fool would think “The Ash Grove” meant to her what it had long meant to him.

      Besides, it was too early in the evening for sad songs. Time to lighten the mood.

      “Here’s one for the children.” Con swept his gaze around the room, winking at each one in turn. “I hope they can help me sing it, for I always make a fearful muddle of the colors.”

      “Where is the goat? It’s time for milking.” He cocked a hand to his ear and the young ones sang back to him, “Off among the craggy rocks the old goat is wandering. Goat white, white, white with her lip white, lip white, lip white…”

      By the time they called the black, red and blue goats, everyone was laughing and clapping. Con followed with several more light ditties about robins and larks and the return of springtime. Then he recited the familiar story-poem about the children of Llyr being magically transformed into swans.

      As he oiled his throat with a few more drops of cider and tuned his harp for more music, Con noticed Enid trying to usher her protesting children off to bed.

      “Let them stay a while longer, why don’t you?” He added his own entreaty to theirs. “Remember when we were their age and the bard from Llyn came to your father’s hall? How vexed we were over being chased off to bed.”

      Enid shot him a glare of purple menace that told him she remembered all too well. He’d had a grand idea they should crawl onto the roof and listen to the music that wafted up the chimney. It had all gone without a hitch until Enid had fallen asleep and rolled off the roof, knocking out a tooth and breaking her arm. He’d been able to scramble away and pretend innocence. Since Enid had vowed by all the Welsh saints that she’d been alone in her mischief, he’d escaped the skinning he probably deserved.

      How many other wild schemes of his had she paid the price for over the years?

      Before Con could ponder that question, Enid scoured up a grudging smile for her children. “Very well, then, you may bide a little longer. Only a wee while, though, mind? And only because the pitch of this roof is steeper than my father’s. You’d break your young necks, like as not.”

      Myfanwy and Davy exchanged sidelong glances and mystified shrugs. Con understood, though. He winked at Enid and was rewarded with a reluctant twist of her lips.

      “I’ll keep it brief,” he assured her.

      “You do that.” If Enid meant to sound stern, she didn’t quite succeed. “It isn’t only the children who need their rest. Others have a full day’s work ahead of them tomorrow, and you have a long walk to wherever you’re headed.”

      Wherever he was headed? To Hen Coed and Macsen ap Gryffith. Another step closer to that knighthood and his triumphant return to the Holy Land. Why did that prize not glitter as brightly as it had just a few hours ago?

      Never one to dwell on unpleasant thoughts, Con pushed the question out of his mind.

      “Here’s a song I learned in Antioch,” he told his audience, launching into an eerie wail of a melody.

      That prompted the Glyneira people to ask him all sorts of questions about his time in the Holy Land. Without too much poetic embellishment, Con managed to hold them spellbound with tales of his adventures—the wonders, the opulence, the intrigue. When a wide yawn stretched his mouth, he realized he’d been talking far longer than the “wee while” he’d promised Enid.

      He ventured a sheepish glance her way, only to find her looking as enthralled by his tales as the rest.

      “I mind it’s past time to put the harp on the roof,” he said, meaning they should bring the festivities to an end. “Here’s a quiet tune to lull you all to sleep?”

      As he played, folks fetched their brychans and found good spots among the reeds to stretch out for the night. Enid motioned her children away to their private chamber. Con wondered if this was the last glimpse he’d have of her before he headed off to Hen Coed at the cut of dawn.

      After the last notes of the lullaby had faded into the night, some of the company responded with muted applause. Others murmured their approval of the night’s entertainment. Father Thomas bid Con an effusive farewell before wending his way home.

      “Fine music,” declared Idwal, nodding his head slowly.

      “Indeed it was,” agreed Gaynor, holding tight to her husband’s arm. “What a pity you have to be on your way so soon, Con ap Ifan. How grand it would be if you could stay and entertain at the wedding.”

      Con flashed a regretful smile at Gaynor’s younger sister Helydd. “I wish I could oblige you. But the man who takes so fair a bride won’t need any songs or poetry from the likes of me to crown his joy of the day.”

      After an instant’s bewilderment, the lady blushed. “Oh, I’m not to be the bride, Master Con. Once Enid and his lordship are married, I hope they can find me a—”

      “Enid?” Con squeaked like a half-grown boy. Then Helydd’s other words sank in. “His lordship?”

      “Aye.” Gaynor beamed with pride. “Macsen ap Gryffith, himself. He’s due to arrive in a few days’ time. Enid pretends it isn’t all settled, but we know better. I haven’t a doubt in the world but there’ll be a wedding ere his lordship departs Glyneira again.”

      Well, well. Con bid Idwal and the women good-night, then rolled up in the thick, coarse-woven brychan he’d been given.

      Why venture off to meet Lord Macsen if the border chief was coming here? Glyneira might be the perfect place for them to confer, more distant than Hen Coed from the prying eyes of King Stephen’s vassals at Falconbridge and Revelstone.

      Con settled into sleep with a contented sigh. Now he and Enid would have plenty of time to warm over their old friendship—before she wed the border chief.

      Somehow that thought threatened Con’s peaceful dreams.

      Chapter Three

      Though Enid slept in later than usual the next morning, she was not sorry for it. The hounds of Chester had long since risen, no doubt. Con ap Ifan might be miles from Glyneira by now, depending on which direction his roving inclination took him. And she’d been spared the polite necessity of seeing him off and wishing him godspeed.

      Yet some bitter herb had crept into her sweet brew of relief at Con’s going.

      “Think