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  Perhaps it was her lack of a maidenhead which distressed him. Maelgwn had asked her about a babe—which meant Ferdic had told him she was no longer a virgin. It was very common for a Brigante girl to lose her maidenhead long before she wed, but perhaps things were different among the Cymry. Did Maelgwn think her devalued because she had known another man?

  The thought made her angry. She had not given her maidenhead willingly; Llewenon had taken it. Maelgwn had no right to judge her. He knew nothing about her!

  Rhiannon struggled to suppress her anger. Maelgwn would have to accept her past. If only she were not so eager for him to like her. Why did she care? she wondered. Why did it matter if this foreign king found her pleasing?

  Mayhap it was because he was so beautiful, so compelling himself. Remembering her first look at her future husband, Rhiannon's breath caught. Esylt had not exaggerated; her brother was a man to inspire legends. Extraordinarily tall, with massive shoulders and long lean limbs, Maelgwn made other men, even Ferdic, seem insignificant by comparison. He had Esylt's striking coloring—thick, wavy hair the color of earth, tanned skin, dark blue eyes set under brooding black brows. His features were strong, but finely molded. Any woman would envy his straight nose, his sensual mouth and prominent cheekbones. But there was nothing soft or weak about Maelgwn. There was a fierceness to his strong jaw, a supreme masculinity about his broad, powerful neck. This was a man meant to rule, to command other men.

  Rhiannon shivered, recalling his kiss. She could still feel his strong hands around her waist, the pressure of his lips. The kiss had been gentle, but, even so, it aroused her fear. How could she not be afraid of a man so big, so powerful?

  Still, for all his accomplishments, Maelgwn the Great did not appear to be a happy man. She recalled the permanent crease marring the skin between his brows, as if his worries never left him; and the haunted look she had glimpsed in the depths of his piercing eyes. What had made him so grim and cheerless? Did he still mourn his wife, the Roman British princess who had died in childbirth?

  Pity filled Rhiannon. She knew what it was like to lose the one you loved—she still mourned Esylt. But Maelgwn was a man, a warrior. It was hard to fathom her father grieving for anyone longer than a week, and certainly not a woman. Maelgwn was very unusual to have loved his wife so dearly.

  Esylt had talked often about her brother, but now, meeting Maelgwn for the first time, it seemed to Rhiannon that Esylt's tales had little to do with the flesh and blood man. Maelgwn the Great looked awe-inspiring, aye, but he was not a godlike hero or magical king. She sensed darkness and despair in him, a deep grief afflicting his spirit.

  Rhiannon sighed. Whatever reason Maelgwn did not want to wed her, it was too late now. On the morrow they would be joined as man and wife. Perhaps he would ignore her most of the time, as Ferdic did with his women. Neglect, Rhiannon knew she could deal with. If Maelgwn left her alone, she would be free to do the things she had always done—to sew, to daydream and wander in the woods.

  Rhiannon turned over restlessly. Already she was desperate to get away and walk outside the fortress. After only a few hours at Degannwy, she felt trapped, suffocated. The dwellings inside the fortress were of an unnatural design. The walls met at sharp angles, and only a few openings let in air and light. She would never feel at home here, despite the obvious comfort and luxury of the place.

  A wave of homesickness brought tears to her eyes. She missed the cozy clutter of her father's camp. She was used to bedding down on a small pallet of sheepskins in a lodge crowded with people and dogs and lit by the flickering glow of a hearth fire. This bedchamber was foreign, desolate, forbidding. Exactly like the man it belonged to.

  She shivered again. She must try to sleep, to put aside her worries. Squeezing her eyes shut, Rhiannon curled up on the bed. She took a deep breath, then another. She pretended she was in her hiding place in the woods... safe, content, at peace.

  Chapter 5

  Rhiannon woke to a knock on the door. She had slept deeply at last, exhausted by her long journey and her worries of the night before. Opening her eyes with effort, she glanced around the luxurious room. The knock sounded again.

  "Come in," she called out.

  The door opened, admitting a small woman with tawny gold hair and greenish eyes. Rhiannon recognized her as Lady Gwenaseth, the woman who had helped her to bed the night before.

  "Good morrow. I've come to prepare you for the wedding. Where are your things?"

  Rhiannon motioned to the bundle she had brought from Manau Gotodin. Gwenaseth began to go through the small pile of clothes and jewelry. After a moment, she faced the bed. "This is everything? Your women did not make you a bridal gown?"

  Rhiannon shook her head. Narana had begrudged her even the little finery she brought.

  "Well, then." Gwenaseth's manner was crisp. "We'll have to see what we can find for you to wear. You're near my size, or at least the size I was at your age. I must have something tucked away that would fit you."

  Gwenaseth wrinkled her brow in thought, and Rhiannon tried to guess her age. Lady Gwenaseth was still very pretty, but her plump body revealed the slight slackness that came from frequent childbearing, and faint lines etched the fair skin beneath her eyes.

  "Of course!" Gwenaseth exclaimed. "Green would flatter you, and it's nearly new. Wait here, Rhiannon. I'll be right back."

  Rhiannon stared at Gwenaseth's retreating form. It surprised her that another woman would be so eager to help her look her best. The women of the Brigante were fiercely competitive. Rhiannon could not imagine them being so kind to a stranger.

  In a few moments, Gwenaseth reappeared bearing a gown the color of spring foliage. She held it up for Rhiannon's inspection. "I scarcely wore it before I outgrew it as a maiden. The style is plain, but embellished with flowers and jewels, it will serve nicely. Here, slip it on."

  Rhiannon stood up uneasily, feeling nearly naked in the thin shift she had worn to bed. She dutifully pulled the gown over her head. The fine, soft wool felt surprisingly comfortable against her skin. The design was different than any she had ever seen before; it fitted snugly in the arms and shoulders but was looser in the waist.

  Gwenaseth frowned, wrinkling her forehead again. "It's too long and a trifle too big, but I think we can make it fit."

  Skillfully, she gathered up the fabric on either side of Rhiannon's waist and eyed the result. "You are tiny. I'm small myself, and I wore this gown when I was even younger than you. There... I will have Cordelia take it in and shorten it and have it ready in no time."

  She helped Rhiannon pull the gown over her head. "Now, it's time to bathe you and fix your hair."

  Rhiannon stripped off her shift and allowed Gwenaseth to help her into a tub which a slave had fetched and filled with steaming water. After washing Rhiannon's hair and body, Gwenaseth and the slave rinsed her with buckets of cooler water and helped her dry off. Still slightly damp, Rhiannon lay naked on a blanket as the two women used a pumice stone to polish her skin smooth and hairless. Although she was normally self-conscious about her body, Gwenaseth's brisk, matter-of-fact manner put Rhiannon at ease. When the slave girl brought an amphora of perfumed oil and began to rub it on Rhiannon's legs, she found herself relaxing like a contented cat.

  The slave expertly stroked the muscles in her back and shoulders, then moved her fingers to Rhiannon's buttocks. As the slave's fingers smoothed the perfumed oil along the cleft of her bottom, Rhiannon tensed. Her body was being prepared for King Maelgwn's pleasure. The thought of him touching her so familiarly filled her with dread. Rhiannon's enjoyment of the massage disappeared. She lay stiff and uncomfortable as the slave finished the intimate task, smoothing the oil over her breasts until the nipples were pink and glistening.

  Gwenaseth returned with the gown, now miraculously shorter and snugger. Rhiannon dressed quickly, and the two women waiting upon her turned their attention to her hair.

  "It's so thick," Gwenaseth said in admiration, fingering Rhiann
on's still damp tresses. "And such a gorgeous color. It would be a shame for you to wear it braided. I think I'll only plait a few strands at the crown and leave the rest long and loose. Maelgwn will like it that way, and wearing it unbound is most appropriate for a virgin bride."

  Rhiannon stiffened. Virginity was apparently highly prized among the Cymry. Perhaps her lack of it was truly the reason for Maelgwn's discontent.

  The two women plaited flowers into Rhiannon's hair and combed it satiny smooth, then Rhiannon fastened her sandals and put on her simple bronze and enamel jewelry. The women stood back to scrutinize their work. "You look beautiful," Gwenaseth said with a warm smile. "Maelgwn will be very pleased."

  Rhiannon started to shake her head, then stopped herself. It would be rude to reject Gwenaseth's compliment. The people of Degannwy would find out soon enough how Maelgwn really felt about his bride.

  The women left Rhiannon alone, to eat and relax for a few moments before the wedding. Afraid to muss her gown by sitting, she ate standing up, nibbling on some cheese and barley bread. She reached for the urn of water, poured a small amount into an elaborate cup, then drank it. The wine, she ignored. The way her hands were trembling, she would be sure to spill it on her gown.

  After eating, she wandered around the room, touching things in awe. Maelgwn's bedchamber was nothing like the bright, casual disarray of a Brigante lodge. The rich, elegant furnishings were arranged with a cold formality that made Rhiannon uneasy, but the room did not lack comfort. Indeed, it was the cleanest, most comfortable room she had ever been in. Woven mats covered the paving stones of the floor, and heavy embroidered cloths draped nearly every inch of the walls, except for the windows, which were open to the summer air. Examining the workmanship of one banner, Rhiannon's eye was drawn by the fierce gold dragon set upon the dark red cloth. This was surely Maelgwn's battle device.

  Next, Rhiannon studied the ornately carved wooden bed. No wonder it felt so comfortable. The straw mattress rested on leather supports strung across the frame. Piled high with sheepskins and bedclothes of the finest wool and linen, it yielded to the sleeper's body, evoking the sensation of lying on a cloud.

  In addition to the bed, there was a stool by the fire, two chairs and a small table in the corner. Rhiannon's father owned several rough-hewn tables and benches, but nothing like this. The furniture here appeared so graceful and delicate, Rhiannon feared to touch it. But it was obviously meant to be used; the chairs even had pieces attached to the seats to rest the body against. Such luxury goods were no longer available in Britain. Maelgwn had likely obtained them through trade with Brittany or Gaul.

  Rhiannon frowned. The beautiful room lacked something. It almost seemed as if these beautiful things were meant to be looked at but were never really used. She glanced around again, searching for some hint of her future husband among the room's furnishings. Sweet scents masked any odors a man might leave, and the bedding had been freshly washed. The absence of any weapons, armor or men's clothing made Rhiannon wonder if King Maelgwn slept in his own bedchamber.

  Noticing a bronze-banded chest pushed back into a corner, Rhiannon slowly walked towards it, her curiosity growing.

  She turned to glance nervously at the door, then opened the chest. On top, she found neatly folded men's clothing. With trembling fingers, she dug deeper. Among a pile of heavy gold jewelry, she uncovered a cross studded with rubies. She pulled out the Christian symbol and stared at it. Had Maelgwn worn this when he lived in the house of holy men?

  Beneath Maelgwn's things, Rhiannon's searching fingers discovered another layer. She tentatively touched some bright blue-green fabric and pulled out a gown as fine and gossamer as a spider's web. Below the gown, she found a carefully wrapped bundle; inside was an amber necklace, a beautiful bronze comb and several bronze and silver jars. Rhiannon opened one of the jars and sniffed, inhaling the faint fragrance of perfume.

  She closed the jar quickly. A chill ran through her. These must be Maelgwn's dead wife's things. Rhiannon reminded herself how scornfully Esylt had spoken of Maelgwn's first wife. Esylt had called Lady Aurora a haughty, cruel and evil woman. She said Maelgwn was a fool to have married her.

  Rhiannon sighed. It did not matter what kind of woman Aurora had been. Maelgwn had loved her. He had never stopped grieving for her.

  Hastily, Rhiannon replaced the contents of the chest. Her heart pounded, and she looked anxiously toward the door to reassure herself that she was alone. Then she stood and walked to the window.

  Her nagging worries from the night before returned, harsh and agonizing. She was certain now that Maelgwn did not want to wed her. He had agreed only because he needed her dowry.

  Despite her attempts to will it away, a deep ache filled Rhiannon.

  At least the wedding ceremony was over, Maelgwn thought with relief as he observed the revelry in the great hall. The day had gone smoothly. The Brigantes seemed impressed with the Christian wedding rituals, and they certainly enjoyed the wine and entertainment of the wedding feast.

  Watching the lusty warriors who filled his hall, as they were dancing and making merry, Maelgwn could not help comparing Rhiannon to her kinfolk. She was so solemn, so quiet. She had scarcely said a word all evening.

  Puzzled, Maelgwn let his eyes linger on his new bride. Her coloring was unusual, but very pleasing—blazing hair, pale but slightly rosy skin, eyes as soft and blue as wood violets. Her features were both graceful and provocative, and her body, beneath the heavy gown and masses of flowers and jewelry, appeared to be well formed and graceful. It seemed to him that Rhiannon should be surrounded by men, like a lush flower drawing bees. But she was not. The Brigante men more than kept their distance; they ignored her. It was strange, Maelgwn decided. Somehow it made him uneasy.

  A movement in the crowd caught his eye, and he realized that the women had come to take away the bride. They would help her undress and then lay her in the flower-strewn bed to wait for him. Gwenaseth reached their table first; she took Rhiannon's hand and gently lifted her up to lead her away. For a moment Rhiannon's impassive expression faltered, and Maelgwn saw fear in her huge, lovely eyes. Then she regained control and went off quietly with the group of women.

  As he watched her go, Maelgwn faced his own nervousness. It was his wedding night, but like Rhiannon, he had little enthusiasm for what lay ahead. He inwardly cringed as he saw the lewdly grinning Ferdic and a group of Brigante men coming toward him, their faces flushed with wine. The ritual of putting the bride and groom to bed together could be crude and insulting. The man was stripped and half-dragged to the bedchamber, with comments about his size and sexual prowess burning in his ears all the way there. Once in the bedchamber, the men might stay there half the night, drinking and joking coarsely. Maelgwn did not think Rhiannon was up to such rude merriment. For that matter, neither was he. He stood as Ferdic approached him, and his hand instinctively reached for the place his sword would be if he were armed.

  "What's this?" Ferdic sniggered. "Our host seeks his weapon? Nay, Maelgwn, your sword will not serve tonight. You'll not satisfy my daughter with that lance. Let's see your other."

  "Nay." Maelgwn's cold voice sent a hush around the room. "I have agreed to everything else you have requested, Ferdic, but I won't sacrifice my pride and Rhiannon's modesty for your amusement. There will be no bedding ceremonies."

  Ferdic met his eyes challengingly. Balyn and Gareth moved quickly to flank Maelgwn. They wore no swords either, but the deadly determination in their faces brooked no argument.

  Ferdic shrugged. "As you wish, Maelgwn. All those years in the priory made you as prim and sour-minded as a priest. You and Rhiannon are well matched. She's a humorless little thing, as unlikely to get a jest as any woman I've known. I wish you years of happiness." His mouth curled derisively as he moved aside so Maelgwn could pass.

  Leaving the hall, Maelgwn walked alone to his bedchamber. He paused a moment before the door. It was a relief to be away from Ferdic and the others, but he could
not shake the queasiness in his belly. He was not used to thinking of lovemaking as a task, but tonight that thought weighed on his mind. He had agreed to marry this woman, to bind her blood to his own, to take her body with his body, to plant his sons within her womb. Duty had brought him here, duty to his countrymen, his father's dream, the soldiers who followed him.

  But duty made a poor aphrodisiac. He remained flaccid and unaroused, with no real appetite for what lay ahead. Still, he dared not hesitate. Like going into battle, if you waited too long, you lost your edge, your instinct. He must get on with it.

  He entered the bedchamber and stood by the door for a moment, until his eyes adjusted to the darkened room. The lamp had not been lit, but moonlight shone in through the windows and Maelgwn could make out a small, motionless figure in the bed. He undressed quickly. The cool night air from the windows chilled the sweat glazing his skin. He crossed the room and got into the bed.

  His fingers touched the smooth skin of Rhiannon's arm. She did not move as he caressed her. He shifted so he leaned over her, then pushed away the silken hair that hid the small, flowerlike face. He brought his lips to hers and kissed her. Rhiannon's mouth was still, her body rigid beneath his. Maelgwn felt his own tension increase.

  With studied expertise, he licked the small, dry lips, and gently forced his tongue into Rhiannon's mouth. She tasted good, warm and sweet and young. Gradually, the thrill of other kisses came back to him. He recalled the delight of exploring a woman's mouth for the first time, the soft, satin splendor, the yielding, wet mystery.

  Perhaps he imagined it, but he thought Rhiannon had relaxed slightly. He reached into the blankets, searching for her fragile, slender body. Rhiannon's skin was cool and dry, almost powdery, and it seemed to Maelgwn he could feel the milky paleness of it, like star flowers beneath the moonlight. He stroked her shoulders gently, then explored her delicate breasts. They were soft and beautifully shaped, with hard little nipples he longed to suck. He closed his eyes and began to enjoy himself. The flame in his loins kindled and caught, smoldering with steady, insistent warmth.