Bertrice Small - A Moment in Time

Suddenly a small hand slipped into her cold one, and she heard her son's voice saying, "Where is my uncle, Mama?"

Wynne looked down at him. "Your uncle is dead, Arvel," she told the little boy. "He will never hurt you again."

Arvel nodded at her with Madoc's look, and Wynne's heart contracted most painfully. "Can we go home, Mama?"

"Aye, my lord prince," she told him.

Arvel's smoky blue eyes widened at her words. "Am I a prince?"

"You are the prince of Powys-Wenwynwyn, Arvel ap Madoc," his mother told him.

"My home is not at Aelfdene?" Arvel was suddenly possessed by a new awareness.

"Nay, my lord prince," she answered.

"Where is my home, Mama?"

"You are the lord of Raven's Rock, my son," she told him.

Rhys came and said, "Whatever you want, Wynne of Gwernach. Whatever help you need, ever. It is yours in return for a debt I can never repay, as well as for the kinship between us."

She nodded. "I thank you, my lord," she answered him, and then she said to Arvel, "This is your uncle, my son. He is Rhys, the lord of St. Bride's."

Rhys bowed solemnly to the little child, saying, "I am always and ever at your service, my lord prince. Is there any way in which I can now serve you?"

"Take me upon your horse, uncle," the little boy answered. When they were all mounted, Arvel commanded Rhys to the head of the line of soldiers. "I would go home now," he said. "I would go home to Raven's Rock."

They moved away from the burning castle, the little boy upon his uncle's great horse leading them. Behind, the bearers surrounded by men-at-arms carrying lighted torches bore the body of Madoc of Powys-Wenwynwyn. They were followed by the women and the small army as they wended their way into the forest. Above them the night sky was lit by a bright, full moon now. Wynne looked up at the moon. It shone pure and white against the blackness.

Then suddenly the pristine beauty was marred a moment by the shadow of a raven as it flew across the moon. Wynne thought that perhaps she might even hear the bird's cry, but had she, it would have been a different cry. Madoc was dead. Once again they had been separated by a cruel moment in time. That they would be reunited again one day she had not a single doubt; and next time… oh, next time, it would be even better!

She was unaware of the tears that were flowing quickly down her beautiful face; unaware that her mouth had turned itself into a secret, small smile at her thoughts. Nothing mattered now but the children. Arvel, and Averel, and the new child growing within her. The children, and Raven's Rock, and her memories. Aye! Her memories. And what memories they were!

WALES, 1805

"I am not certain; no indeed, I am not certain at all that we were wise to allow our young people to go off without a proper chaperone," Lady Marcella Bowen fretted to no one in particular. A large, handsome woman in her mid-forties, she wore a purple gauze scarf wrapped in turban fashion about her graying locks that bobbed with her uncertainty as she peered myopically after the departing riders.

"Nonsense, m'dear," her portly husband, Sir Rumford Bowen, replied jovially. "Summertime… informality here in the country, y'know… not to worry."

"Yes, indeed!" echoed Sir Rumford's good friend, Sir William Thorley. "Informality quite the order of the day here at Tretower Wells."

"We should have gone to Bath," muttered Lady Marcella.

" Bath is out of fashion now, m'dear. Brummel himself has said so, and the ton is quite scattered this summer," Sir Rum-ford told his spouse.

She glowered at him and said acidly, "And to what purpose, I should like to know, sir? Every eligible male of good breeding in London is God only knows where, instead of in one central place, Bath, where they may be properly inspected and assessed by the families of young ladies of equal breeding. Mr. Brummel has rendered the natural order of things into chaos. If he were a decent man he would be quite repentant. Knowing him, however, I expect he finds all of this quite amusing, the wretch! How shall we ever find a husband for Honoria, I should like to know?"

"Now, now, m'dear," Sir Rumford attempted to soothe his wife, "there are several fine young men here at the spa, and others expected as the summer passes."

Lady Marcella sighed with the air of one martyred. How did one explain to a man about these things? Tretower Wells was not Bath. It could not even compare to Bath. It was a new watering spot, just opened to guests this summer, in which her husband, Sir William, and several other gentlemen whose wealth and titles stemmed from their success in trade, had invested. With Brummel's declaration that Bath was passe, these gentlemen and their families had all nocked to Tretower Wells, much to the distress of their ladies.

The wives of the investors were all of one mind. That their sons and daughters marry young women and gentlemen higher up on the social ladder, not each other. What good was money if it could not buy you what you most desired? Now, alas, months of careful planning was gone awry, for Tretower Wells, in the Black Mountains of Wales, was hardly a hub of society. Indeed, it was quite at the ends of the earth.

"Thank God Olympia is already betrothed or we should completely be ruined," Lady Marcella declared. "Honoria is, after all, only seventeen, and we have at least another year before I must really worry."

"You need never worry about Honoria where men are concerned," her husband remarked wryly. "She attracts them like bees to a flower."

"Do you not also have the responsibility of your orphaned niece, Miss Katherine?" ventured Sir William's mousy wife, Lady Dorothea.

"Honoria must be considered first," Lady Marcella replied firmly with maternal interest. "Dear Kitty is an heiress, after all, and despite the fact she is an American, a most desirable catch for any young man of good breeding. Actually," Lady Marcella continued archly, leaning over to confide in Lady Dorothea, "I am considering her as a possible partie for our eldest son, George. Perhaps, however, I should seek a wife with English wealth for George. He and Kitty do not seem particularly enamored of each other."

"Do they not like each other?" queried Lady Dorothea, eager for a bit of juicy gossip.

"Oh, indeed they do, for cousins," Lady Marcella said, "but I am not certain they would make a good match as a husband and wife."

"What about matching her with one of your younger sons?" asked Sir William, getting into the spirit of things. He and his wife were childless, but they took a great interest in the Bowen children.

"Impossible!" Lady Marcella replied. "AnsCom is studying for the church. It will be some time before he can take a wife. Darius is in the army. His regiment is to be posted to India soon. An American wife would not do for Darius at all. As for Nestor, his career with His Majesty's navy almost precludes his having a wife, although he may someday take one; but he is several years younger than dear Kitty. No, it will be either George or some other acceptable gentleman, but alas, we are not at Bath. There are no acceptable gentlemen I might consider for either Honoria or Kitty." She sent her husband a black look. "I vow they will wither on the vine here this summer, poor dears!"

"It appears to me that none of them are withering at all," Sir Rumford replied spiritedly. "They were, in fact, quite looking forward to their outing."

"Where are they off to?" Lady Dorothea inquired curiously.

"Up the mountain," he told her. "There is some sort of local legend about a ruined castle atop the ridge, and they are to meet up with several of George's friends from Oxford who have been riding about the countryside. They will return with the children later for a stay of several weeks here at Tretower Wells. Quite nice young fellows, they are. Olympia 's betrothed, Sir Halsey Halstead, and two others, Sir Frederick Galton and Sir Thomas Small. Perfectly eligible, both of them, m'dear, or had you forgotten?" he grinned at his wife.

"They are indeed eligible! You are correct, Rumford! I had quite forgotten that Freddie Galton and Tom Small were coming to Tretower Wells." Lady Marcella had brightened considerably.

"Sir Thomas Small? Isn't he Baron Lindell? Why, he came into his money when he was just five years old. Raised by a spinster aunt. I went to school with Emily Small," Lady Dorothea said excitedly. "He's fabulously wealthy, y'know! Has properties in India and the Americas as well. The money comes from tea, and furs, I'm told, not to mention huge holdings in land."

"Indeed?" Lady Marcella said, almost purring, her blue eyes dancing with interest. "We have only met him twice. Once at Oxford, and once when George brought him home between terms. He is a handsome young man, rather dramatically so, I thought. I was not aware of his most excellent background, my dear Dorothea. How kind of you to enlighten me. He is certainly a very possible match for our Honoria. He is not betrothed, is he?" she asked anxiously.

"I have not heard of it if he is," Dorothea Thorley replied, delighted to have known something that her formidable friend did not.

"Then perhaps it is better I did not send a chaperone along with the children," Lady Marcella decided out loud. "They will feel freer to get to know one another in a more informal setting. Oh, I do hope Honoria will not do anything unseemly to put this worthy gentleman off," she fretted.

"Do not distress yourself about Honoria, my dear," her husband said. "She is just a bit high-spirited. Most gentlemen find that charming in a young girl."

Lady Marcella looked once again in the direction that the riders had gone, but the shaggy little Welsh ponies were long out of sight. She frowned.

"Why, I vow I can actually feel Mama worrying that she has let us go without a proper chaperone," Miss Olympia Bowen said as they trotted along.

Her siblings laughed, and then her brother Anscom said, "I believe I should censure you for such an unfilial thought, my dear sister."

"You're no parson yet, Anny," Olympia replied tartly.

"And I should not be at all had not George been so discourteous as to be born before me," Anscom Bowen replied mischievously.

"Do not blame me," George Bowen replied. "Have you any idea at all the difficulties involved in being the heir? I should just as soon study for nice quiet Holy Orders, Anny, as be responsible for Bowenbrooke House in London, and Bowenwood Manor in Worcestershire, and of course, first and foremost, by appointment to His Majesty, Bowen's Best, the Tea of Royalty."

The riders laughed again, and then Miss Honoria Bowen said, "And do not forget, Georgie, that Mama is counting upon you to marry some wickedly rich and fecund young heiress."

"Rich and fecund heiresses are usually horse-faced. I must have a pretty wife, or none at all," he told them. "It's only fair."

"I am quite insulted, George," their cousin Miss Katherine Williams said. "I am most wickedly rich, although I do not know if I am fecund, but I am certainly not horse-faced."

"Then marry me, Kitty, and put an end to all our troubles. Mama will be looking for a husband for you as soon as she has settled Honoria, I warn you!"

"Dear George!" Kitty reached out and patted his hand with hers. "You deserve a girl who loves you unabashedly, and I deserve a man whom I can love forevermore. Neither of us is that person for the other, and well you know it."

"You are a most unrepentant romantic, dear Kitty," Olympia told her.

"Do you not love Sir Halsey then, cousin?" Kitty probed.

The Honorable Miss Olympia Bowen blushed to the roots of her short chestnut-brown hair, but said boldly, "I most certainly do love Halsey! He is the best of men!"

"Then will you not allow me the same good fortune as you yourself have found?" her cousin asked.

"Love! Love! Love! Is that all you silly creatures are going to talk about?" demanded Lieutenant Darius Bowen, of His Majesty's Bengal Lancers. "This castle we're off to see was, I am told, in a most perfectly and naturally fortified setting. It was, so legend says, never successfully captured in a war."