Free A Memory of Love by Bertrice Small Page A

almost six months ago. He was equally appalled by the amount of baggage she would be leaving with, but accepted his sister's explanation on the matter and her dictate that he could not leave until the morrow.
    Rhonwyn had been turned from a rough-speaking half-lad into a beautiful young woman. Her cropped hair had grown out. It was parted in the center and hung down her back, contained by a simple silver ribbon. Her bosom seemed larger, which was to his mind all to the good. Men liked a woman with plump breasts. She no longer walked with determined strides, but rather glided gracefully. The hands that had held a sword were now perfumed and soft, and the long fingers that had so skillfully drawn her bow now plucked at the strings of the mandora in her lap while she sang softly. The English could have no complaints about his daughter.
    “You have worked a miracle, Gwynllian,” he told the abbess.
    “Yes,” she agreed with a small, arch smile. “She is more than well worth the price you have paid for her transformation. However, brother, I must be honest with you. Were Rhonwyn not an intelligent girl, none of this would have been possible. And you should show the men of Cythraul some appreciation, for they are the ones who taught her honor and duty.”
    “While turning her into a rough, foul-mouthed soldier,” he grumbled at his sister. “And that cost me a fortune to reverse. I am tempted to burn Cythraul down about their ears!”
    “This is not someone else's fault, Llywelyn,” the abbess said sternly to her brother. “This mishap was your failing. You know it, and you know why. Put it behind you, and tomorrow take your daughter to England to her husband. Remember, however, this time you travel with a lady , and not a laddie.” Then the abbess chuckled at her own small play on words.
    The morning of April second came, and Rhonwyn's baggage was loaded into a sturdy cart. She bid the sisters farewell, taking special time to thank those nuns who had given her all the knowledge she now possessed, particularly Sister Rhan and the abbess.
    “Remember, my child, that you will always have a home and a refuge here at Mercy Abbey,” Gwynllian told her. “May God bless you with happiness and many children.”
    “Not too many,” Rhonwyn teased her aunt. “But I do promise to save at least one girl for you, my lady abbess.”
    With a chuckle, the abbess hugged her niece, kissing her on the cheek. “Godspeed, Rhonwyn uerch Llywelyn,” she said.
    Mounted upon Hardd, Rhonwyn rode through the abbey gates by her father's side. She heard the portals close behind her, but she was not sad. She was free from the constrictions of the nuns at last and off on a new adventure. They had turned her into a mannerly lady, but they had not tamed her spirit nor dimmed her enthusiasm for life. She had spent these past months in earnest study so she could be worthy of her father's name and her new position. Now she must turn her mind to Edward de Beaulie, the man who was to be her husband. She couldn't even begin to imagine what he would be like, but over the next few days of their journey she tried.

“The messenger has arrived from Prince Llywelyn, my lord,” the servant said, bowing to his master.
    “Bring him into the hall” came the reply.
    “Yes, my lord.” The servant bowed again, and backed away some feet before turning about. He returned only moments later. “The messenger from Prince Llywelyn, my lord.”
    Edward de Beaulie glanced briefly at the rugged Welshman.
    “My master and the lady Rhonwyn will be here by nightfall, my lord,” he said. Then he fell silent.
    “I await them” was the brief answer.
    Cold bastard, the messenger thought as he bowed to the lord of Haven Castle and departed the place to ride back to ap Gruffydd with the reply.
    Edward de Beaulie watched him go, and then absently took the silver goblet of wine his servant offered him, staring into the dancing red gold flames in the fireplace. He wasn't