Morgana

By Anne Phillips

It is the autumn of 1277, and the rebellion of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, believed by the Welsh to be
righful Prince of Wales, against the English King Edward I has just ended with the signing of the
Treaty of Oswestry. Sixteen- year- old Morgana de Malvey finds herself with divided loyalties as
she is half Welsh and half English. The bastard daughter of a minor Norman-English knight and a
Welsh woman, life has not been kind to her as she has been lame since her early childhood, and by
the dying wish of her father, Rafe de Malvey, she has been raised under the guardianship of his
widow, Lady Camilla de Malvey. She barely tolerates Morgana, except as companion to her younger
half-sister Constanca. A great marriage lies ahead for Constanca, but all Morgana looks forward
to after her sister`s marriage is the priory where she will spend the rest of her life. However,
she has never been resigned to this fate, but can see no escape from it. Her only trusted friend
at Tre Nant is a Welsh serving-woman called Tudfil, who is surrounded by a mystery of her own.
When Constanca marries Stephen de Barfleur, Morgana captures the interest of a guest at the wedding,
Crespin de D`raconville, and her future becomes even more uncertain and even perilous. But,
although she does not realise it she is not completely alone, for she has friends - surprising
friends in high places.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Phillips
• Release date: Mar 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310983337

Anne Phillips

I was born in Swansea in March 1942, and apart from 5 years spent in Australia in my twenties, I have lived all my life in Wales. I have been married over 50 years, and I have one daughter. I have been a writer ever since I could hold a pen and mastered the alphabet. I belong to the Tuesday Afternoon Writers of Port Talbot. My hobbies are reading,reading, reading, and anything creative ie gardening, sewing and drawing. IAlso Iove to travel, and have done so extensively - and hope to do much more. Anne Phillips

Book preview

Morgana

By

Anne Phillips

Copyright 2009 © Anne Phillips

Anne Phillips has asserted her right, under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise,

be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Morgana

Part One

Tre Nant 1277

It was past the hour of Vespers, the last meal of the day had been served in the great hall, the trestles cleared away and the scraps left for the hounds to quarrel over in the rushes that covered the floor. In an upper solar two young girls sat in the evening quiet. The rays of the setting sun bathed the girl reclining on the bed, in gilded light. I am sleepy, she yawned; I fear I have eaten too much again. Another girl, who was a little older, was seated in the narrow window embrasure picking out a tune on a small harp. Is my playing keeping you awake, Constanca, shall I stop?

"No, do not stop, Morgana your music is very restful. Constanca de Malvey yawned again. Morgana smiled for when was her half-sister not sleepy? She bent her head over her music again, unaware that the dying sun turned her hair as red and gold as the western horizon. For a while only the pure notes of the harp disturbed the stillness. Constanca`s breathing grew slower and deeper as she slipped into a doze. Morgana stopped playing; laid down her harp and slid from the embrasure. The heavy hanging fell back across the window plunging the chamber into darkness. Stealthily she went over to the bed to satisfy herself that Constanca was really asleep, she then left the chamber. She did it carefully and slowly, for Morgana de Malvey was lame. However, she had long grown accustomed to her affliction, and how most people regarded it. Seated or mounted, she looked graceful enough, even pleasing, and the glances that came her way then were often admiring ones. But when she was on foot the glances became pitying or shocked, before eyes slid away. But it did not matter how many times she told herself it didn`t matter, she knew it mattered a great deal She limped along the cold, stone passageway. It was dark, and only one cresset burned at the farthest end where the narrow spiralling steps rose to the walkway of the keep. Climbing stairs was always a trial for her, but once at the top she found a sheltered spot that afforded her a spectacular view of the countryside for miles. Morgana looked out over the village below, the roofs of the hamlet that sprung up close to the sheltering walls of the castle; and the well tended strips of earth from which the villains wrested a meagre living. All were still and quiet, almost no sign of life, except where a beast grazed. No lights showed in the hovels, for most of the occupants had already eaten their supper and were already abed. Only the slow curl of smoke from their banked cook fires rose into the gathering night.

Focusing her glance beyond the village of Tre Nant, Morgana saw the arch of the stone bridge, which was reputed to have been built by the ancient Romans, with a strength and precision to last a thousand years. The bridge straddled the Nant, a tumbling torrent rushing over its stony bed, filling the air with its distant sibilant song. She sighed; Tre Nant was at peace, but for how long? She frowned at the thought, for in these times peace was a transient thing. This last bitter war seemed to be finished. It had been a year of prodigious struggle and it had ended in Llewelyn ap Griffith, Prince of Wales, signing a Treaty with Edward of England at Oswestry that virtually gave over all his power as Prince of Wales into the hands of the English King. Only his holdings in the north at Aber could he now truly call his own, and the peace was an uneasy one. Morgana was surprised that she had managed to get away from her sister so easily.

Constanca was always at her heels, mostly when she wished to be alone, and never to be found when she needed help with the work delegated to her by the lady Camilla. Not that Constanca deigned to soil her delicate hands with work at any time. Even the most fragile piece of embroidery was deemed too arduous for her. It was not that Constanca meant to be tiresome, but she had always been spoiled and petted. She was, after all, the legitimate daughter of the house, the heir to Tre Nant, destined for a great marriage and she meant everyone to know it, especially since her betrothal to Stephen de Barfleur. Since the coming of the de Barfleur messenger she had been more imperious than ever.

The messenger had arrived a week since, on a golden afternoon that held no hint of autumn. The lady Camilla was expecting him. Now that the treacherous Cymric had been crushed, de Barfleur would want his betrothal settled. After brushing the worst of the dust from his garments and slaking his thirst, the messenger, Gilbert Lacey, had been conducted to the great hall of Tre Nant.

Camilla de Malvey the widowed lady of Tre Nant was a sick woman. For the past year she had suffered a festering lump in her left breast. Even so, she made the effort to dress in her finery and prepare herself to face this messenger of the illustrious de Barfleurs. She knew why he was here; indeed, she had been expecting him since the warring had ceased. Over a year ago, when she had first known the nature of her sickness, she had instructed her chaplain Father Ambrose, to write to the king, informing him of her illness, and humbly requesting that he find a suitable husband for her daughter, Constanca. As an heiress with no close male relatives, Constanca had automatically become the ward of the king, as was customary. The king had it in his gift to marry off these `wards of court` to anyone he decreed suitable. would not have been an easy matter for the lady Camilla to deal with herself, for despite her honourable lineage and name, her daughter’s dowry consisted only of this manor of Tre Nant. Once the de Malveys had been wealthy with much more land, but her husband, Sir Rafe had been a soldier, and not given to good management of his estates and holdings, and much given to gambling and dicing. Indeed, it was only recently that she had finally settled his outstanding debts with the London moneylenders.

Camilla had been overjoyed when the king’s reply had arrived suggesting a match with the grandson of Lady Edith de Barfleur, Countess of Belcarte, a woman of considerable wealth and influence and one of the queen`s closest friends and confidantes. Camilla had agreed with alacrity and a betrothal agreement was drawn-up. However, the lady forbore to inform the demoiselle Constanca of this. She would know soon enough. As for now she was well satisfied. The king, it seemed, had not forgotten the loyal service her husband had given his father, King Henry.

In the great hall the lady sat in the high chair on the dais. She sill retained enough of her dark, imperious beauty to impress even the sophisticated emissary used to the exotic and noble ladies of the Lady Edith`s household. A hasty summons brought Father Ambrose from the cool tranquillity of his chapel, with Gruffydd ap Rhos at his heels. Master Gilbert, foremost of Lady Edith`s secretaries read out the wording of the betrothal agreement. No flicker of emotion betrayed the lady Camilla`s satisfaction and relief. Stephen de Barfleur, Earl of Belcarte, was on his way back from Chester after breaking muster with the king’s army. He desired to be married within two days of his arrival, and then to continue his journey to Belcarte Castle in Gloucestershire, where his grandmother would receive his bride.

Camilla had signed the betrothal agreement. It was agreed that her nephew, Richard Beauchamp, would stand for de Barfleur at the betrothal ceremony. It was decided that the official betrothal, which would be almost as binding as matrimony, itself, would take place that evening, and be sanctified in Tre Nant`s tiny chapel. No feast or celebration would follow. When the arrangements had been finalised Master Gilbert took himself to his allotted quarters to eat and rest. As he left Camilla beckoned to Gruffydd, who as always, hovered near her elbow. He searched her face for a sign of pain or distress, but there were none, save only a faint trace of perspiration on her brow, which might have been caused by the heat of the day. She was calm, preoccupied. He thought, Tudfil`s medicine is working well, for she spoke clearly and decisively

We must begin preparations for the marriage immediately. My. Lord de Barfleur seems to be in an almost immodest haste to have this wedding done with, Gruffydd. She crooked a finger and he drew even nearer. Go to Tudfil, tell her I must have inventory of the pantries and storerooms, and I must have it before Vespers.

Gruffydd left the hall swiftly. In the courtyard he found Lady Camilla’s page, the boy Ranulf. He was kneeling in the dust, playing pitch and toss with a stable boy. Bending down Gruffydd tweaked him hard by the ear and hauled him to his feet. Grimacing, the boy shook off Gruffydd`s hand and brushed the dust from his crumpled hose. Go in search of Dame Tudfil, the steward instructed, And give her this message from my lady. The boy listened and then shot off into the herb garden at the rear of the kitchens, where Tudfil was invariably to be found at this time of day. Gruffydd returned to the hall, and took up a stance behind the kitchen screen, where he could listen quietly and unseen. My lady, it was Father Ambrose who spoke. Tre Nant will be hard pressed to entertain the great company that de Barfleur will bring with him. Camilla bade him come and sit beside her. Have no fear, Father, she answered. I will not shame this house, not if I have to scour the whole of our lands for every scrap of food and fodder I can find. The priest sighed; he knew that she meant every word. Camilla de Malvey was a proud and determined woman. She was also a dying woman. He had known it for a long time, and suspected that she did, too. Only the potions brewed by Dame Tudfil made her life bearable. Much as he abhorred the woman, Tudfil, he had to concede that it was her magic alone that kept the lady of Tre Nant alive. A new query arose in his mind When the demoiselle Constanca is safely married, he hesitated, not quite knowing how to put his question. Camilla gave him a bright, sharp glance. And I am dead? she asked it for him

Yes, my lady, when you are dead, he crossed himself then continued, "There is still the problem of the demoiselle Morgan

Morgana is no problem, she said icily. Has it not been decided these many years that she will enter the Priory of St. Wydda?"

But, my lady, the priest`s face had blanched a shade even paler than usual, and his hands clutched at the wooden rosary at his waist, as if for strength What of your promise, your deathbed promise to your husband. Have you forgotten that a promise to a dying man is sacred and cannot be broken? My lady you will be in peril of losing your soul The girl is dangerous to the de Malveys.The lady replied stubbornly. It is my duty to make sure that nothing interferes with the marriage of my daughter, the heiress of Tre Nant. Do not speak to me of danger to my soul, priest, do you not think I am aware of it? Ambrose shrugged his angular shoulders. "Aye perhaps it is so. Mayhap it would be best for all concerned. But it still troubles me that she shows no vocation for the Holy Life, and I believe she has fallen under the influence of that Welsh witch, Dame Tudfil.

Dame Tudfil is no witch, she replied sharply. And Morgana, despite my dislike of her has soothing hands. When she lays them upon me, she brings ease and sleep.

The work of Satan, the priest muttered and crossed himself again. I fear it is too late for her soul to be saved. She is tainted already with the witch Tudfil`s sorcery."

Camilla de Malvey sighed irritably. Once upon this tack there was no shifting the priest. She decided to change the subject. Camilla buried the knowledge that she too sometimes felt a prickle of unease at Tudfil`s skill with remedies, and the power of Morgana`s healing hands.

The Priory is the best choice. Morgana is beginning to show signs of comeliness, despite her – unfortunate lameness. She stumbled over the last word, and the elderly priest’s eyes met hers briefly and uneasily, for a second there was a silent acknowledgement of guilt between them.

Have you not thought of marriage for her? As you say, lady, she is growing into womanhood. Soon she will catch the eye of some lusting youth, or man." He would not tell what he already knew, that Morgana had indeed caught the eye of someone. A sudden dread possessed him, that the past might be repeated before his eyes. Yes, the Priory was the place for her, Holy Calling or not. But perhaps an obscure marriage might prove the answer.

Who would take the girl, Sir Priest? The lady spoke contemptuously. She is lame and baseborn. Surely, you jest?

"I was not thinking of anyone of rank, lady. Perhaps one of the garrison, and there is Idwal the miller’s son, and Geraint the smith, both