First of the Tudors. Joanna Hickson

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      Tŷ Cerrig, Gwynedd, North Wales

      THE SOUND OF THE watch-bell always caused a bustle in the house. It meant either trouble or visitors, sometimes both. The cheese-making would have to wait. I took off my apron and sent Mair the dairymaid to discover what all the clanging was about, while I sped out to the brewery to draw a jug of ale. Whoever was arriving, refreshment was bound to be required. By the time I had taken the ale to the hall and set out some cups Mair returned to tell me that three strangers on horseback were trotting up the road from the shore. Strangers were a rarity at Tŷ Cerrig.

      ‘What is it, Sian? What is happening?’ Face crumpled from sleep, my stepmother appeared through the heavy woollen curtain that divided the solar from the hall, although the word ‘mother’ seemed hardly appropriate for a girl who had seen only three more summers than me; that is to say, seventeen.

      ‘Strangers arriving,’ I said. ‘I was just going out to see.’

      Her face fell. ‘Oh. Must I go and greet them?’

      She was pregnant; very pregnant, her belly taut and round, only days from delivery and suffering from swollen ankles and shortness of breath. It would not be good for her to stand in the yard while men and horses milled about and dust flew.

      ‘No Bethan, you stay in here. Sit down and wait. Whoever it is will come inside eventually. Father will be there by now and I will go out. You can pour the ale.’

      Visibly relieved, she waddled to the large wooden armchair that stood by the hearth. ‘Yes. I will do that. I will wait.’

      Bethan was sweet but she was a simple soul. Her marriage to my father had taken us all by surprise the previous year, being only eight months after the sudden death of my mother, to whom he had been wed for nearly twenty years and who he had unquestionably loved and respected. But Bethan was an heiress, the only child of a neighbouring landholder. The match had been made and a contract drawn up with a view to securing both her future and ours. It was a sensible arrangement for she had known my father from childhood and trusted him and we all knew her well and understood her disability, brought about by a slow and difficult birth, which both she and her mother had only just survived.

      I glanced around the hall to check that it was ready to receive guests. A peat fire smoked lazily in the hearth, beside it an iron cauldron seethed steadily, containing the evening pottage. With regret I calculated that I would have to wring the necks of a couple of chickens if guests were staying, unless they came bearing gifts.

      Outside, I had to shade my eyes against the sun which still stood high in the May sky. The warning bell had brought my father Hywel and two of my brothers, Maredudd and Dai, from the sheep pens where they had been checking the month-old lambs before their spring release with the ewes onto the high moorland grazing behind the house. Sheep dogs were yapping at their heels but on curt orders from their masters they dropped to the ground, crouched and silent, as four horses clip-clopped under the farmyard gate-arch. Three of them were mounted, the fourth was a laden sumpter led by the foremost rider.

      My father gave a shout of welcome and stepped forward to grab his boot. ‘Ah, glory be to Saint Dewi, it is you Owen Tudor! You are very well come to Tŷ Cerrig.’

      The long-legged man who swung down from his horse immediately drew my father into a bear hug and slapped his back heartily. ‘It has been too long, Hywel, but at last I have brought my sons to meet their Welsh kin.’ He turned to the two young men who still sat their horses and switched to English. ‘Edmund, Jasper – get down and greet your cousin Hywel Fychan. You probably do not remember him but I expect he remembers you, eh Hywel?’

      He was a good-looking man, this Owen, whose Welsh was fluent but tinged with a foreign lilt. However, the sons who obeyed his command to dismount were of a great deal more interest to me. At first sight they seemed of similar age but judging by the way the darker one took the lead as if by right, the redheaded son was the younger. Both tugged off their felt hats and made respectful bows and while the elder was receiving another of my father’s generous hugs, the gaze of the younger wandered in my direction. I felt an unexpected rush of pleasure as his face creased in a chip-toothed smile. I shyly returned the smile.

      ‘I remember two small boys who were often up to mischief,’ said my father when the greetings were done. ‘But now I see two young men who may create more.’

      Owen laughed heartily. ‘You can say what you like, Hywel, because they will not understand you. I am ashamed to say they have no Welsh. I thought if I brought them here they might learn a few words and something about farming. Only one generation from the land and yet they know nothing!’

      ‘My boys will see to that,’ declared Hywel, beckoning them forward and switching to English so that Owen’s sons might understand. ‘This dark Welsh ram is Dai and the one with the light hair is Maredudd, my eldest son. He looks like his mother, do you not agree? Sadly she went to the angels at the start of last year.’

      ‘Agnes is dead?’ echoed Owen, making the sign of the cross. Clearly he had known my mother well for his expression became shadowed with regret. ‘May she rest in peace. I am very sorry to hear that.’

      My father frowned fiercely. ‘Yes, it was a great loss. She gave me two daughters and three sons and then died from a fever; who knows why? I have a new wife who is about to give birth so we are praying all will be well with her. Come inside now and meet her. Her name is Bethan. Mind your head.’ He caught sight of me as he ushered his cousin towards the low door of the house. ‘Oh, this is my younger daughter Sian. The elder one is married and lives away now.’

      I bobbed a curtsy as they passed me and Owen paused to smile and bow, repeating my name in his mellow voice before ducking under the lintel. The two younger men stopped and greeted me politely. The first followed immediately in his father’s footsteps but the one with the bright hair and the chip-toothed smile lingered before me. ‘Sorry, I did not catch your name. Mine is Jasper.’

      Why did I have to blush? СКАЧАТЬ