“Er… Not entirely. Here in Llanedwyn, the wassailers sing Christmas tales of good cheer but it’s tradition that the house occupants retort with their own humorous verses. It can become quite raucous.”
Elen bit her lip.
Gwen laughed. “Then we all have a tipple of the liquor, toasting to good health and the passing of the longest day, before the wassail bowl is re-filled by the house occupants and we troop to the next doorway. As is custom, we complete the night in Grandmother Smith’s apple orchard where a fire will be lit and a modest amount of carousing takes place.”
“How thrilling and pagan,” Isabelle gushed. “And then–”
“Noswaith dda,” rasped a Welsh brogue in greeting.
“Oh,” replied Elen. “Noswaith dda, Tristan.”
Gwen slowly swivelled.
Her breath ceased.
Lord Tristan held a flaming torch and the flicker of fire cast his face to such contrasts – golden splendour and dark danger. His hair was tousled, caressing his sharp cheekbones, and his eyes glinted. No starched cravat or concealing scarf attired him this night; instead, he wore a loose neckcloth, baring his throat, white scars weaving across it. A waistcoat of rough brown clung to his chest with solely a jacket atop, despite the cold.
To Gwen, he appeared rugged and wild and savage but…
By the look in his eyes, no memories had been rekindled by his visit to Darowen Bay.
She was still forgotten.
“Where’s Mari?” she asked.
“With Hugh, Captain Brecken and his sister. We are all ready to parade to the first house after Rhys’ speech.”
“Rhys makes a speech?” his duchess queried. “He never said.”
“Look! Here he comes.”
Isabelle spun so fast, her cider spilled. “Sacre bleu,” she purred as Rhys strode into the square, appearing like some ancient Welsh prince about to command his soldiers to battle, garbed in black but with a blood-red waistcoat.
He ascended a few steps which led to a statue of the first warrior earl of Llanedwyn, turned and held his torch aloft. “Men and women of Llanedwyn,” he yelled. “We demand the evil spirits to leave us be. We bid the benevolent spirits to bide awhile. Let the wassail procession commence.” Rhys Cadogan, English duke and Welsh earl, then strode down the steps, black cloak billowing, the crowd parting as he made his way across the square to bow before Isabelle. “My duchess.”
As she accepted his hand, the villagers cheered, holly-decorated hats flew aloft and Mari waggled a long-handled spoon that nigh took Captain Brecken’s eye out.
Gwen turned to fall in behind the duke and duchess but a rough-knuckled hand stayed her elbow.
Her eyes followed that hand upwards. Wrist, arm, shoulder…
Tristan cleared his throat. “I… I need to apologise for last night, Gwen. I–”
“There’s no need,” she blurted. “It is I who should–”
“No. Not at all. It was I who…”
They looked anywhere but at each other – the torches and the villagers surrounding them – and she loathed it, loathed the awkwardness that had come between them.
A lad jostled her and Tristan swept her nearer, making it all so much worse. She blinked at his scarred throat. “I-Isabelle told me you went to the…to the boat shed.”
“Yes.”
“Did you…remember anything?” And she peered up.
He frowned but shook his head.
Their eyes held, and for a moment, the wassailing crowds around them dissipated, the clamour became indistinct and the light of the torch he carried swathed them both in flickering gold.
