Rhiannon (2 page)

“Yes, but not in that tone of voice if you wish Henry to
moderate his actions,” Geoffrey pointed out. “I do not say that Henry cannot be
forced, but if he is, he will remember and hold a spite. On the other hand, if
he can be convinced by soft words, the same end can be achieved without making
him hate us.”

A chorus of women’s voices agreed and went on to suggest
methods of leading the king away from his folly, but Simon did not hear. When
his father said the word Wales, a face had risen into his mind’s eye, a voice
had sounded, not in his ear but on his heartstrings. Rhiannon! Rhiannon of the
Birds—she whose bare feet twinkled like silver in the dew-starred, moonlit
grass of a high valley, whose silvery white hands drew silver songs from the
silver strings of her harp, whose streaming hair was perfumed with the wild
flowers and mosses and rich earth, whose lips tasted of wild strawberries from
the high pastures warmed with the spring sun. Rhiannon! The only woman he had
ever loved—and she would not have him.

* * * * *

Simon could not remember a time when he had not tumbled
females. Even before puberty, he had wielded his tool with great satisfaction
to himself and his partners, if with little effect in the procreative sense—and
never had he been refused. In fact, it was rare indeed that he needed to ask.
The girls and women had always come after him. Nor did he refuse any—young and
old, pretty and ugly. Simon gave them the best his magnificent body could
produce. But he did not offer, did not even think or speak of love—and he
warned all his lovers that he would be inconstant.

The permanence of marriage held no appeal for Simon. His
need for gentle warmth, for steadfast, unwavering affection was well supplied
by his parents, his half sister and half brother, and their spouses. The
unquestioning adoration of children, the need for heirs to the land that would
be his when his father died, was also provided by his nieces and nephews. Simon
already had his eye on one of Adam’s younger sons who seemed to him to him to
have the temperament to deal with the northern barons.

Yet, when he had first seen Rhiannon singing to her harp in
her father’s hall, before he had even exchanged a word with her, he had been
conquered. It was not her beauty, although she was beautiful; many more
beautiful women had lain in his arms without touching his heart. Perhaps it was
the wild tale she sang, full of enchantments and tragedy, that had sent love’s
dart into him. She looked a part of that ancient tale herself. Her gown, heavy
with gold and jewels, was a hundred years out of date; her hair, black and
shining as the sleek feathers of a raven, flowed unconfined by veil or net or
wimple down to her knees. Jewels hung in her ears and bound her brows. Simon
had never seen a woman who appeared so wild and free.

“Who is she?” Simon had asked Prince Llewelyn when
Rhiannon’s song had ended.

“My daughter,” the Lord of Gwynedd had answered, smiling,
“or so I believe. Her mother is not a woman with whom a man would argue—or
trifle—not even I. I say I do not believe in such things, but Kicva is a ‘wise
woman’. Kicva’s father, Gwydyon, was bard to my court in those years, and she
came to me and said she wished me to sire a daughter on her. It was no burden;
she was a lovely thing. Later she brought Rhiannon to me from time to time that
I should know her and she me, but she never asked for anything nor would even
take what I offered freely. Of course, they were not in need. Gwydyon was a
real power in the hills and Kicva also. Rhiannon…I do not know. She is stranger
than her mother in some ways.”

“Is she married?” Even as he asked, Simon wondered why he
had done so. It had never mattered to him before whether an attractive woman
was married or not. Those who were ready to betray their husbands, Simon took
without a thought; those who loved their men, he did not pursue. But in the
infinitesimal pause before Llewelyn answered, Simon knew it was of great
importance to him, and his breath sighed out in relief when Llewelyn shook his
head.

“God knows I have presented enough men to her,” Llewelyn
said, “and I am willing to dower her with lands as well as what she will have
from her mother. Rhiannon will have none of it. They are not marrying women.
Gwydyon did not marry Angharad, Kicva’s mother—or, more like, she would not
marry him.”

“That is very strange,” Simon said. The ruses his unmarried
mistresses had used to attempt to trap him into marriage were myriad. He had
not thought the single state was ever a woman’s choice, except those who professed
the celibacy of a religious life. “Did they have many lovers?” he asked.

Llewelyn laughed. “I never had the courage to ask Kicva, to
tell the truth, and Rhiannon just laughs at me and says it is not my business
when I ask her why she will not take a husband.”

“But as her father it is your right—”

“With Rhiannon it is easier to name a right than to enforce
it. I do not provide for her. I cannot even command her comings and goings.”
Suddenly Llewelyn shook his head. “Do not reach for Rhiannon, Simon; you will
get your fingers burnt.”

“Do you forbid me, my lord?” Simon asked, his breath
catching again with a strange anxiety. “I mean you no dishonor.” His eyes
wandered to Rhiannon where she stood talking to her half brother Gruffydd.

Llewelyn’s eyes followed Simon’s and then moved back to the
dark, incredibly handsome face. “That is something new in you,” he said
thoughtfully. There was a pause while Llewelyn considered what Simon had
proposed half unconsciously. “Certainly I would not oppose such a marriage,” he
went on, “but your father and mother might not welcome it.”

“My father would not object, my lord,” Simon said eagerly.
“He loves you well and would be glad of another bond with your house. My
mother, I think, would welcome any marriage I was willing to make and—” his
eyes wandered to Rhiannon again, “and she would understand Lady Rhiannon better
than most other women. She is old now, but her spirit is still strong.”

Llewelyn smiled reminiscently. He knew Alinor well. “That is
true, but I fear they will never meet despite the ease with which we seem to
have decided this matter. I do not believe you will ever get Rhiannon so far
from her hills. You may try for her with my blessing, but remember I have no
power to give you more. Rhiannon is a law unto herself. I fear you will have
only grief from her.”

Simon had not believed him, nor had he noticed the sly
glance that touched him and moved away. It would serve his purposes very well,
Llewelyn thought, if Simon married Rhiannon; he should have thought of it himself,
but at least he had applied the right spurs now that his brain had been jogged.
He watched with mild amusement the confident carriage as Simon crossed the
hall. This would be a struggle worth witnessing.

There was no reason for Simon to lack confidence. No woman
except those whose hearts were already given had ever refused him. When he
approached Rhiannon he was more concerned that he would be disappointed by her
on closer acquaintance than that she would not welcome his attentions. At
first, indeed, it seemed as if he would succeed with her as easily as he
expected. When he came near, Gruffydd looked up from his half sister’s face and
said rather nastily, “Here is our tame Saeson.”

It was a remark calculated to raise animosity in both Simon
and any full-blooded Welshwoman, but Rhiannon knew her half brother and turned
to look at Simon without apparent reluctance. A slow, appreciative smile dawned
on her face.

“Heavens, how beautiful you are,” she said. “A veritable
work of Danu.”

“I might say that as well for you, Lady Rhiannon,” Simon
rejoined, but his voice did not hold the light laughter with which he usually
addressed and flattered women.

Close up she was even more impressive, although actually
less lovely. Her nose was a trifle too long, her mouth too full and wide for
absolute beauty; however, it was not possible for Simon to think of such
things. Her eyes did not drop as a modest maiden’s should; they seized him and
held him boldly. They were large, almond shaped, tipped upward at the outer corners,
and of a clear green—a color Simon had never seen except on a cat. More
intriguing still, she examined him with the frank, slightly contemptuous
appraisal that a feline bestows upon humans. No blush mantled her cheeks,
although her skin, denied the sun that tanned it in milder weather, was white
as snow.

“Oh, you might say that and any number of other pretty
things, I should think,” she answered, laughing. “I imagine you are a great
master at saying sweet things to women.”

“I tell them what they wish to hear,” Simon said, stung by
her amusement. “What do you wish to hear? That your singing still sounds within
me? That the bright glance of your eyes has blinded me to all other beauty? I
will say it, and it is true. I am no liar—even to women.”

“How can you tell a woman what she wishes to hear and yet be
no liar?” Rhiannon asked. There was no sneer in her voice. She sounded
genuinely interested in the solution to such a paradox.

“Deep within, each woman knows her own beauty. There is
always something lovely in a woman, unless her soul is corroded beyond hope
with evil. The ugliest may have a sweet smile or a soft skin or a warm,
gracious voice. Women are not fools. They may seem to desire and to accept
untrue flattery, but if you praise what is truly beautiful in them, you will
strike them to the heart.”

The laughter vanished from Rhiannon’s face and the contempt
from her eyes. She stared unwinking at Simon, then shuddered slightly. “You are
a very dangerous man, very. It would behoove me to have no more to say to you.”

“Are you afraid?” Simon’s eyes sparkled with challenge.

“Yes.”

Simon laughed. “Your father has just told me that I should
not reach for you lest my fingers be burnt. In response to that, I asked for
your hand in marriage.”

“No!” Gruffydd spat. He had been listening to them with a
steadily blackening scowl, and now he exploded. “My sister will not be sold to
a Saeson. I will bestow her on a suitable man in Wales when I—”

“I will be sold to no one,” Rhiannon interrupted sharply. “I
will marry where I choose, when I choose, and not at all if I choose. You have
no right to bestow me any more than does Lord Llewelyn. Do not be a worse fool
than you can help, Gruffydd. You are allowing this Norman-English-Welsh matter
to unsettle your thinking. Not all Cymry are paragons of virtue and not all
Saeson are evil.”

“Perhaps not all Welshmen are perfect,” Gruffydd snarled,
“but I still prefer to live and breed within my own kind. I say my sister will
not go to a stranger—”

“What a fool you are!” Rhiannon repeated in an exasperated
voice and, in defiance, placed her fingers on Simon’s wrist. “Let us go,” she
urged.

“I am sorry,” Simon said as he led her away. “I did not mean
to make a quarrel with your brother. Nor, I hope, will you misunderstand me.
Your father neither sold nor bestowed you. What he said was that I might try
for you with his blessing, but that you were a law unto yourself and he had no
power over you.”

A faint blush of pleasure tinted Rhiannon’s translucent
skin, but it receded at once. The green eyes lifted to Simon’s. “Oh, you are
clever,” she exclaimed. “You are a very devil for seeing into my heart.”

“I have seen nothing,” Simon denied, but that was not really
true. Unlike most other men, Simon was intimately acquainted with passionately
independent women, and he understood a great deal. “I have only repeated to you
your father’s words to me,” he went on. “He also said you would bring me only
grief. But I am not afraid. It is not possible to know joy without daring
sorrow—and I see in you a hope of joy such as I have never known.”

“No doubt you see that same hope in each woman you pursue,”
Rhiannon remarked, the laughter coming back into her eyes. “To say that you
hope would be no lie. Each time you would only need to confess that your hope had
not been fulfilled.”

“I see someone has been warning you against me,” Simon
sighed. “The half of it is not true at all, the other half much exaggerated.
Were I what is said of me, I would need seven of everything a man uses to make
love and the ability to send each to a different place at one time.”

Rhiannon burst out laughing at the mock plaintiveness in
Simon’s voice and the spurious, outraged innocence of his expression. “You are
wrong,” she told him. “I have read what you are in your face. I do not even
know your name.”

“I beg your pardon, Lady Rhiannon. My name is Simon de
Vipont, and I am son to Lord Ian and Lady Alinor of Roselynde. I was knighted
by King Henry last Christmas and did fealty to your father for the keep at Llyn
Helfyg, Crogen Keep, Caerhun, and Dinas Emrys at the May Day festival. How is
it that you were not there, my lady?”

She did not answer him at once, but stood staring. “You hold
Dinas Emrys that looks over the Vale of Waters?”

“Yes. It is the most beautiful place in the world, is it
not? From the keep I can look down Nant Gwynant until I feel the soul drawn out
of me into the blue distance.”

“You love it,” Rhiannon said. It was a statement, not a
question.

“The best of all my holds,” Simon confirmed. “Although each
is dear to me in a special way.”

“Do you hear nothing in the winds that play around Emrys
rock?” Rhiannon asked, her eyes fathomless.

“Perhaps, but nothing that I need fear,” Simon replied. “I
am no unwelcome conqueror to this land—in spite of what Gruffydd said. Llewelyn
gave the lands to my father out of love and trust. I was squire to William
Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, and served in south Wales, but my heart has always
been here—which is why my father ceded the lands to me while he yet lives. But
you did not answer me, Lady Rhiannon. Why have I never seen you in your
father’s court before?”