In the beginning she had raged against her fate, but then she realized that since Eadwine was the only person who could free her, she would have to convince him that she was content. Wynne knew how very much he wanted her to be his wife. After her child was born, she would agree to his proposal. There was no priest at Aelfdene, and therefore they could not be formally married until a priest could be brought to them. Her status would only change in the sense that he would legally free her. When she told the priest of her predicament, he would, of course, forbid any marriage between them. Eadwine would have no choice but to let her go home. In her desperation and naivete, Wynne was convinced that the scenario could be successful, for although Eadwine Aethelhard was a stubborn man, he was also a very honorable man.
So over the past few months she had been sweet-tempered toward them all, despite the gold slave collar she wore about her neck. She never forgot that she was Wynne of Gwernach, wife to Madoc, prince of Powys. "Madoc!" she half whispered, and a hard pain gripped her, causing her to gasp aloud and double over. When the pain had passed, she straightened up and moved slowly across the Great Chamber to where the birthing chair with its open center had already been set up in anticipation of her child's birth. Wynne stripped off her yellow tunic dress and her indigo-blue under tunic, folding them carefully and putting them away in the large, carved chest that Eadwine had given her for her possessions.
Within the chest were the things she needed for the birth. She carefully lifted them out, spreading several thicknesses of cloth beneath the chair first and then laying out the baby's little gown, a cap, and the swaddling cloth, toweling, and finally a small flask of rendered lamb fat for gently cleaning her child free of the birthing blood. Another pain tore through her, and Wynne groaned loudly. The pressure was almost too much to bear. She seated herself in the birthing chair, legs spread, drawing her chemise up about her waist, and as she did so, a great gush of water issued forth from between her thighs. With a mutter of irritation, Wynne arose slowly from her chair and, kneeling down, removed the cloth beneath it, replacing it with fresh cloths. The soaking-wet fabric she lay carefully aside to be washed. Waste was an anathema to her, and, like most women of her time, she was frugal by nature. She returned to her chair.
Pain. And more pain overcame her. She gripped the arms of the birthing chair, struggling not to cry out too loudly. Eadwine, she knew, was surveying the rain-soaked fields, for the barley had been planted earlier in the week. His sons and their families kept to their own halls during the day, and Wynne had cleverly sent Ealdraed to the cook house to discuss with Heall her plans for the kitchen gardens this season. The cook had asked her to take charge of that small part of his domain. "That you may have all you need for your pharmacea, lady," he had said.
Her pains were coming quickly now, and the feeling of strong pressure was completely unbearable. She could not help herself, and with a great groan she pushed down once, twice, and a third time. For a dizzying moment she was free of pain. Then the agony and the straining began again. She was quite powerless to stop it now, for the birth was imminent. Unable to contain herself, Wynne cried out aloud, pushing down again as she did so. She found herself panting wildly. She could actually feel the child being born, but now she suddenly wondered if she could indeed birth Madoc's son without help. A shriek was torn forth from her again, and then, to her relief, she heard familiar footsteps upon the staircase.
Eadwine Aethelhard practically leapt into the Great Chamber and, hurrying to her side, knelt down, his hands sliding beneath the birthing chair. "The child is half born, my wild Welsh girl," he said.
"I don't want you here," she gasped unreasonably as another spasm gripped her vitals and she bore down once more. "I… I want Madoc!" Still, she was glad to see him, even if she couldn't admit it.
"Push again, and once again," he calmly instructed her, ignoring her sham anger.
"I hate you!" she cried out to him, but obeyed. Suddenly she realized that her travail was nearly over. From beneath the chair, she heard a small whimper which was almost immediately followed by a tiny bellow of outrage. Gasping and still overcome with small pains as she expelled the afterbirthing, Wynne watched in amazement as Eadwine tenderly cleaned the child off. Expertly he put the tiny gown on the infant, gently fit the tiny cap on the tiny head, swaddled it most efficiently, and handed it to her.
"You have a fine son, my wild Welsh girl!" he said approvingly. "What is his name to be?"
Wynne looked down at her son and tears sprang into her eyes. How much like Madoc he was, she thought sadly. They had planned to call a son Anwyl after that long-ago child from another time and another place; but she knew the circumstances of this baby's birth would not allow her to call him Anwyl. Someday they would be free, but she never wanted to forget Brys of Cai's wickedness, and so looking up at Eadwine Aethelhard, she replied softly, "His name is Arvel ap Madoc. Arvel means wept over, for this son of Madoc, the prince of Powys, is far from his heritage, and is to be wept over by all until he can be restored to it. By his mother, who has brought him into this slavery; and by his father, who has so longed for his coming and has lost him before he even knew him." She handed the baby back to the thegn. "Take him, my lord, and place him gently in his cradle while I attend myself."
"If you will wed with me, Wynne," Eadwine Aethelhard said, laying the infant in his cot, "I will raise your child as if he were my very own child."
"He will not be considered a slave?" she asked as she cleaned herself free of the traces of Arvel's birth. The heir to Powys-Wenwynwyn must not be a slave!
"Nay! From this moment of his birth he is free, and so I will affirm to all, my wild Welsh girl!" declared Eadwine Aethelhard passionately.
Wynne drew forth a clean chemise from her chest and put it on, adding her old garment to the pile of bloodied laundry. Slowly she crawled into their bed space. She was aching and suddenly very tired. "I am not certain that it is right, my lord, but I will be your wife," she promised, "if a priest, knowing of my history, will marry us."
He nodded. "We have no priest at Aelfdene now, and although I have applied to the diocese at Worcester for one, they have not yet granted us this blessing. Until such time as a priest is sent to us, Wynne, you will live with me openly as my wife. I will make it publicly known to all that I intend to wed with you; that you are to be treated with honor as the mistress of this manor; that all of your children are my children. There is nothing unusual in such an arrangement for a second marriage among our people. Rest now, my wild Welsh girl. You have done well this day. I will send Ealdraed to watch over Arvel, and you need have no fears for his safety." He bent down and kissed her gently, his crisp beard tickling her cheek. Then he left her.
She had done the right thing, Wynne thought sleepily. Arvel would never be a slave, no matter what happened. She would see that Eadwine fulfilled all his promises to her. As mistress of Aelfdene she would have even greater respect than she now had as Wynne, the healer. She was feeling giddy with happiness and filled with relief at having come through the perils of childbirth unscathed; of having a beautiful and apparently healthy son. Despite the rain, spring was here. Madoc would find them. It was the winter that had undoubtedly impeded his search. Now that spring was here, he would find them. Certainly before her six-week healing period was over, but if not before then, surely soon thereafter. Even if Eadwine was able to enforce his husbandly rights over her, it was a well-known fact that nursing women did not conceive. Everything would be all right. Madoc would soon find them and, in the meantime, her new status would protect her son.