January passed. Then February. In mid-March the springtime burst upon them and the hills were bright with colorful blooms. Wynne sensed his rising despair. "I did not come to Raven's Rock to make you unhappy, Madoc," she told him one evening as they lay together. "I came to be your cherished wife. Yet my very presence, for all our passion, breaks your heart. I can bear no more of it, my love!" She pushed back an errant lock of her raven's black hair. Her face was even paler than usual. "I have tried to remember, but I cannot! It is as if something is preventing me and I know not why. You cannot tell me what it is that binds us together you say; but I must still know if we are to be happy. Help me, Madoc! Help me to remember that other time since I seem so unable to do so myself.
Madoc sighed deeply and then he looked up into her beautiful face. "I will blend a special packet of herbs for you, dearling. When you are ready to make your journey in time, Wynne, mix them in a goblet of wine and drink it down. You will fall into a deep sleep. The herbs in the wine will free your mind to remember that past which you and I shared. The wine will relax you so that you have no fear."
"Have we not shared more than one past together, Madoc?" she gently pressed him. Now that her decision was made, some deeper instinct was stirring within her.
He nodded in the affirmative. "We have."
"Why now and not before?" she wondered aloud.
"God has a great sense of both justice and humor, Wynne. The timing was never quite right. This is the first time we have been lovers since then."
She nodded and then asked him, "How can I be certain that I will remember that particular life which seems to trouble you so greatly?"
"Because that is the life that you wish to remember, dearling," he told her. "That is the door which will open for you. It is as simple as that."
"How long will I sleep, my lord?" She pushed nervously at her hair again.
"A few hours. A few days," he told her quietly. "It depends upon how much you choose to remember."
"I would know everything, Madoc," she told him resolutely. "Though I believe the past is best left behind, I can see that the pain of that past will not leave you until I have relived it, though I do not understand why. Still, I will do it for you because I love you! I want us to get on with the lives we now live. There is so much ahead for us to share, my love!"
"Pray God you are right, Wynne!" he cried wholeheartedly and, reaching up, he drew her down into his gentle embrace.
She snuggled against him for a moment and then said, "I will not get lost in time, Madoc, will I?" It seemed to be her one great fear.
"Nay, darling," he promised her. "You will only sleep. Your lovely body will remain precisely where you lay it down. You will awaken when you choose to awaken. You need have no terrors over it."
"Is there anything else that I need to know?" she fretted.
"Nothing." He paused and finally said, "When do you wish to do this thing?"
"Not for a few days' time, but blend your herbs, Madoc, for there will come one moment in which I shall be braver than in any other moment. It is then I will depart on this adventure, so be prepared."
He seemed relieved by her answer, a fact that Wynne found intriguing. Her curiosity was now more aroused than it had been before. He loved her. Of that Wynne had no doubt. Yet despite his love for her, despite that undeniable fact, Madoc was suddenly showing signs of fear; he obviously wanted her to go upon this journey in time. What was it that she would learn? It was a puzzle that was beginning to fascinate her more now than it had before.
During the next few days Wynne rested and studied with Madoc in his high tower chamber. His knowledge of ancient Celtic medicine simply astounded her, and he willingly passed on to her a great deal of this valuable knowledge. It was unfortunate that some of that lore would be useless to her because many of the ingredients, once so easily available for the taking, could no longer be found growing. They had simply disappeared. They were irreplaceable, of course, because no one knew with what to replace them in the formulae.
Once there had been a special parasitic mistletoe that grew only upon the sacred oaks so beloved of the Celts. It had been used for healing serious cancers, but the mistletoe now available was not the same plant that had been used in those long gone days. That particular growth, Madoc told her, had been lost along with their sacred hosts when the Romans, and those other conquerors of the island of Britain who followed after them, viciously destroyed the oaks in an effort to wipe out the Celtic culture.
Madoc would have taught Wynne certain forms of spells and bindings, but she would not let him. His special knowledge was a great temptation that she feared she might be unable to control. Wynne knew that if she had Madoc's knowledge of sorcery, no matter her good intentions, she might one day lose her temper and do a harm she might later regret and be unable to undo. She remembered a fairy tale her grandmother used to tell about an unhappy queen, stepmother to four beautiful children, the three sons and the daughter of a king called Lir. Jealous, the queen had used her knowledge of magic to turn the children into swans. Quickly regretting her hasty actions, the queen found she could not undo her spell, and her husband died brokenhearted.
There were other dangers in Madoc's knowledge. It made his neighbors and those who did not know him well fearful of him. If her own learning extended too far past mere medicine, and word of it got out, which it always did, she might attract the attention of those who would seek to use and control her for their own wicked purposes. As it was, there were some, particularly in the Church, who would feel her knowledge was too great for a woman. Women like that were always a danger. She had the children she would bear Madoc to consider. She must walk a fine line.
The weather had turned warm, perhaps too warm for late March. Wynne fretted that there would be no flowering branches with which to decorate the Great Hall of Raven's Rock when their wedding day arrived. She grumbled about this to Madoc as they rode out over the hills one afternoon, and he laughed.
"The warmth is but a brief thing, dearling. It will storm by nightfall and turn cool, I promise. There will be more than enough flowers and flowering branches when May first arrives," he assured her.
"If it gets too cold the buds will be frosted and ruined," she grumbled.
"There will be no frost," he replied.
"You are certain?" she demanded.
"I am," he chuckled. "Like Nesta, I am sensitive to the weather. It will rain for the next few days, I promise you."
"Then perhaps tonight," Wynne told him, "I will begin my journey in time."
"So soon, my dearling?" His blue eyes bespoke his distress.
"Madoc," Wynne said in the severe tone of a mother reasoning with an unruly child, "You want me to go, and then you do not want me to go! I no longer care! I do this for you. Tell me yea or nay, now! Then we will have no more of it!"
"You must go," he finally agreed, "though I fear your return even more than your going."
Wynne reached out and took his hand in hers. "I love you, Madoc of Powys. What has been done is done for me. It is the present and the future that I love and reach out for; not a past that seems to haunt you so."
"I pray it be so, dearling," he said squeezing her hand.
"Though I must do this alone, Madoc, I ask of one thing of you," Wynne said softly.
"Anything!" he vowed.
"Be there when I awaken, my lord. Let your dear face be the first thing that I see when my eyes open once again upon this time and this place," she replied.