Hosts of Rebecca

came upright.
“Any news of Iestyn, Tomos?” asked Mari, and I saw the pain fly into her face as he pressed her hand for answer. Round he went in the circle now, bowing to the women, breaking the hands of the men, until he came to Morfydd. With her illegitimate son held against her she faced him and her voice was cold and clear.
“Good evening, Mr Traherne.”
History here. Cast out from Chapel by Tomos when she brought forth Richard.
But not as easy as that, for Tomos bent and kissed her face, and then her son, and took him from her arms and carried him round the circle, and Morfydd lowered her arms, her eyes cast down. But nobody really noticed Morfydd for all eyes were on the gigantic minister. The introductions completed he raised his hand and roars and cheers as it hit the ceiling, and his voice as thunder boomed around the room.
“Good people, God’s people,” said he, double bass. “You of this county are as the Welsh of my county – faithful in labour, generous to neighbours – true Welsh, I see, by all the saints! As a Welshman I greet you and bring you God’s blessing. As the adopted father of this beloved family I give you thanks from the bottom of my heart that you should show them such kindness. And here I vow …!” and he raised his fist, “that whatever trust you put in them they will not be found wanting. Look the world over and you will find no better neighbours with whom to share this Christmas. And may the good Lord, Whose eternal Spirit guides the hearts and minds of decent men and women, cover you with the mantle of His blessing, and keep you pure and free from harm. Amen.”
And we stood in respectful silence, conscious of his greatness, trembling to his hwyl. Vibrant, fervent, his voice rolled on:
“And listen! Do not mistake the kiss of this lady, for she has kissed me often when her man was alive, and he never raised an eye! Shall I tell you of this family, of its father who stood for the things that are good and clean in life? Shall I tell you of the son who languishes in far off Van Diemen’s Land because he fought, prepared to die, for the things that are decent – against the tyranny of foreign masters in a revolt against the State? Let there be no sin in opposing evil wherever it is found. And Richard Bennet, Morfydd’s man, do you know that he died in this fight and left her alone to raise her son? I can see that you do not know these things, for the Mortymers were never ones for speeches, so I tell you now with pride. Let there be no secrets between such neighbours as you. Let it be known that the Mortymers, too, have their place among you, that they have earned the respect you pay them, with their lives.”
Clapping and cheers at this, and I must admit I felt a thrill of pride that brought the water stinging to my eyes as I thought of my father and Iestyn, my brother. My women were standing rigid, their heads low, and my mother was weeping, her face wet, with no attempt to wipe the tears. I looked hard at Mari. White faced, she stood by Tomos, and I pitied her. For I had heard in her first shriek of joy at the sight of him that she was hoping for news of my brother. Nothing for her save confirmation of Botany Bay, with visions of the chained labourers and the blood-soaked ground of the triangles. But Tomos was speaking on:
“And as I laboured along the road from Carmarthen town I rested by the wayside to catch my breath. There, in the frost, I listened to Sanctus – to the sound of your voices, and beautiful it was to the weary traveller who has walked nigh eighty miles. The sound of your hymn ennobled me, and I knelt in the snow and gave prayers for you, receiving in turn renewed strength for the journey.” His voice rose higher. “And so now, before I take leave of you to find rest – last verse of Sanctus again. Lift the roof with it – ring it out to Monmouthshire. Full chorus now, full harmony, to the beautiful words of your Richard Mant. Ready, ready …?” And his arm swept up and down, and we sang. God, how we sang! Deafening to the ears, this time, rising to such beauty and power that it caught at my soul and snatched it upwards in the last, glorious line.
“Holy, Holy, Holy Lord!”
And in the ringing silence Tomos caught my eye again.
“Jethro!”
“Tomos!”
I ran into his arms.

CHAPTER 6
BITTER OLD winter, this first one at Cae White, with the coots slipping on their backsides well into March and the hedges iced like gentry wedding cakes. The trees rattled as moody skeletons in the salt-tang of the estuary and the peat bogs rammed themselves into glass. No longer the otters barked along the banks of the Tywi, with the curlews too nipped to shout at dawn. Gaunt and forbidding was the country still, biting at fingers, twisting at noses, and the whole rolling country of mountains and pastures from Llandeilo to Haverfordwest was hammered into frost by the thumps of winter.
Out at first light, me, back with the curtains. I dressed quickly with mist billowing against the window, trying to get down before Morfydd for once. Snatching my towel I went on the landing and Mari stood there, her eyes dazed through the loss of another night.
“You all right, girl?”
She nodded, smiling faintly.
“Heard you last night, tossing and turning,” I said.
“Too tired for sleep,” she said. “It will pass.”
“Do not come down,” I said. “Morfydd and me will get ourselves off.”
Morfydd at the bottom of the stairs then, peering up. “Mari,” she whispered. “Go back to bed – do you