Chapter Seven
Maelon’s
kiss left Dwynwen breathless. When the Prince released Dwynwen from his arms he
whispered, “You’ve bewitched me.”
Dwynwen
felt the heat rise in her cheek, and lowered her eyes.
“Look
at me, princess.”
Dwynwen
met the prince’s stare. "I am bound by your beauty,” he said, his eyes drinking
in every detail of her face.
Maelon gathered her into his arms and Dwynwen
lost herself in his touch, his kisses, so ardent they made her light-headed and
giddy. Undeniably irresistible, this handsome man with his sweet words and strong
embrace made her feel special. How could she not succumb to his magic?
Was
this love? Could it happen so fast?
To
be the object of such passionate desire never knowing how she had longed for it.
Dwynwen nestled her head against Maelon’s chest, listening to his steady, quick
breath. “I have never been happier than at this very moment.”
“Fate has shone her bright light upon the
earth so I may follow it and find you.” Maelon’s grip tightening about her
shoulders. “On the last evening of the celebration, once the feast fires have been lit, I shall
speak with your father to ask for your hand.”
Dwynwen
gasped.
Maelon
brought her delicate fingers to his lips. “If you will have me.”
Torn
by her feelings for Maelon and her obligations, which she tried to push from
her mind, Dwynwen stood speechless.
“You
are silent. Have I mistaken…?”
She
leaned forward, silencing the prince with a kiss.
“You
have not mistaken my feelings for you,” she whispered against his lips. In that
moment, Dwynwen could do nothing but give Maelon her heart. “Speak with my
father.”
Maelon’s
eyes widened and a smile lit up his face. “You are beautiful.”
He
caressed Dwynwen’s cheek. “I would like nothing more than to stay here in this
garden and admire you until the sun rises, alas, I think it is time to return
to your father’s celebration.”
“We
have been gone for some time,” Dwynwen
replied. “My sister must be looking for me.”
“Ah
yes, your sister. We would not want to
worry her.”
The
prince led the princess to the entrance and they re-entered the castle, one after
the other.
Once
Dwynwen slipped back into the great hall she quickly met her youngest brother who
was seeking her advice on how best to approach the daughter of one of the
visiting noblemen.
A
moment later, the prince entered with
confidence, holding a cup of wine in his hand. Leaning against the far wall, he
sipped his drink in an unhurried manner.
Maelon
and Dwynwen’s yes met from across the room. His gaze caressed her slender figure.
Dwynwen’s cheeks flushed as her brother tirelessly chatted beside her unaware
that she was mesmerized by the regal figure staring at her from across the room,
and did not hear a word he saying to her.
Maelon
Daffrodil appeared to Dwynwen to be as calm as the seas of summer, while her
own heart beat as wild as an unexpected winter storm.
Chapter Eight
After
shelving the items she’d purchased from Mr. McNally, Gwen wandered up to her room
slipped into a flannel nightgown and curled up on her bed. Pulling her knees
close to her chest, she took out the condolence card from Mr. Pryce, studying
it as she hummed a melody to herself, a wordless tune her mother sang to her
when she was a little girl. Although, she didn’t know the name of the haunting
melody, it always comforted her.
On
the night table beside the bed lay her mother’s journal. She never would have dreamed of reading her
mother’s private musings, but now she felt it might hold some information that
could be important. She tucked the card into the journal and tentatively opened
the book to the first page dated September 1, 1915.
Flipping
through the pages, Gwen was surprised to find that the journal contained not
only personal thoughts and ideas, but accounts
and details about her ancestors, he Brecons. She noted their arrival to Canada
in 1842, and listed several births and deaths. Her mother had a talent for
drawing and in the middle of the journal she had sketched a beautiful oak tree.
On each of the branches, names were scripted in her fine hand. However, the
sketch seemed unfinished as there were many branches with no name or
information. In that moment, Gwen promised herself that one day she would
complete the work her mother had begun so many years ago, once she’d done some
of her own research.
“Brecon,” she read aloud from the explanation
in the journal’s pages which cited the name originated from the fifth century
Welsh king, known as Brychan of Brycheiniog.
“Bra-hi-nee-ock.”
When she said it aloud, the unusual name tripped over her tongue, and she realised
it was the same name Mr. Pryce mentioned earlier.
According
to notes in the journal, it was also the origins of her mother’s maiden name.
She
turned the gold pendant in her fingers, her brain wrapping itself around the
discovery. Was it a coincidence, or was
it possible he was telling the truth and the two families were connected, as
far back as the firth century?
Gwen
wondered that if it were true, what could be so urgent that after all these
years Mr. Pryce should come all the way from Wales to make his claim. What
could be so important?
She
closed the journal, returning it to the night table, pondering the question as
she glanced out the window.
It
had grown dark, the sun, only a memory now, had given its place to the light of
the moon. The weight of the events of
the day, and the questions conjured up from reading through the journal, had
suddenly made her feel drained of energy and she fought back a yawn. She
settled herself under the covers of her bed.
“I
miss you mum,” she said, and then drifted off to sleep.
Running through the trees, fleeing
from a dark and unseen force, she desperately tried to keep her feet from tangling
with the linen fabric of the shift that whipped and stung her bare legs.
The moment she thought she could go
no further, the trees opened upon a small clearing.
Time itself ceased ticking and everything
stilled around her.
She slowed her pace, walking
tentatively into the clearing, before her, an ancient stone chapel glowed a
bright light, its warmth emanated from within, beckoning her to come near. With
each step she took, the air began to vibrate
until the night was filled with a resonance both eerie and beautiful.
The music encircled her as she stood
frozen on the steps of the stone building, unable to move, unable to breathe.
Images flooded her mind, bringing
her to her knees. The feeling that she unworthy of experiencing such beauty and holiness
overcame her. Then suddenly, the thought of others finding out the truth made
her gasp for breath. Her mind reeled with fear and confusion.
What truth? she whispered.
She attempted to form a
comprehensible explanation from the barrage of images, but none came.
She lifted her eyes to the sky and
filled her lungs with a cleansing breath. The images faded and her thoughts
became clearer.
This was a place of refuge; she could feel it
in her soul. But where was she and why was she here?
Shaking off the feeling of
unworthiness, she regained her courage and moved closer to the chapel, drawn to
it like a cold body to a warm fire. An overwhelming sense of peace washed over
her as she touched the aged wood of the chapel door. The need to anchor herself, to surrender and
become one with this holy place was greater than she could understand. As her
fingers reached for the latch, the peaceful feeling that had enveloped her was
obliterated by the violence of hands appearing from out of the dark, tearing
her away from the warm light.
A scream escaped her throat as she
fought the hands that gripped her. She begged to stay in the light. She
struggled against the force holding her back from her holy refuge, vehemently
denouncing the evil dragging her back into darkness of the forest.
The rustling of leaves and the snap
of branches ceased. All was quiet for a
brief moment, and then her cries rose as the sound of linen being ripped to
shreds echoed in the dense air.
“No!”
Gwen awoke with a cry that mirrored the one she’d heard in her nightmare.
Gasping
for breath, she looked down to where a scorching heat seared through her chest.
The
pendant glowed orange.
