Rhiannon (21 page)

Although it was late when Simon went to bed, he was among
the first to stir in the morning. His mood was happy. From Llewelyn’s last
words, he thought that the war would be renewed—if not immediately, then soon
enough. That provided a prospect of amusement and profit. Far more important,
Llewelyn had, at last, recognized that his intention to have Rhiannon was fixed
and serious—and would most likely succeed. Under no other circumstances would
the prince write a proposal of marriage to Ian.

Simon could hardly believe his good fortune. Although
Llewelyn had said more than once that he favored the match, Simon had always
believed he was half jesting and did not really believe Simon had much chance
to win his wayward daughter. Even a natural-born daughter of a prince could
look much higher for marriage than a younger son, no matter how rich and well
connected his parents. But Simon did not miss the advantages for Llewelyn
either. Rhiannon was obviously a special case. He thought of her married to a
man who held a great court—and burst out laughing so that he was cursed
sleepily by those around him who were not prepared to wake so early.

Just think of the wife of a man like Richard of Cornwall or
one of the
ducs
of France running barefoot after game in the fields and
woods with her hair all unbound, dressed only in a rough, dirt- and
grass-stained kirtle. And Rhiannon was not one who could be forced into a
pattern of behavior because it was considered correct. She would run away or
might even kill a man who tried to enforce his will on her. In addition, there
was the question of dower. For a great marriage, Llewelyn would need to find a
large sum of money or a very substantial amount of property. Without being
told, Simon knew that Llewelyn was not willing to do that. Money was always a
problem, for Wales was dreadfully poor. Any of the great Marcher lords might be
happy to take land, but Llewelyn was completely unwilling to increase the
influence of any man whose primary loyalty must be to the King of England.
Doubtless he knew that Simon would inherit his father’s northern properties
when Ian died, but with both a wife and the major portion of his lands in
Wales—and his heart there also—Llewelyn had reason to trust that Simon would
stand with the Welsh in any conflict of loyalties.

All the better, Simon thought, as he kicked Siorl awake and
told him to get the men up. He would get a much smaller dower than a greater
man, but Llewelyn would be aware of what he had saved and would be glad over
the giving. But best of all was the fact that Llewelyn said he would write to
Kicva. To tell Rhiannon he had made a serious proposal for her marriage would
probably do nothing but enrage her. On the other hand, if Kicva approved, Simon
knew he would have a strong ally, and one who could deal with Rhiannon.

The letter was waiting for him when he went to take his
leave of his lord, and Simon flushed a little when he took it. It was large and
official-looking, sealed with the seal of Gwynedd. It must be a formal
proposal, he thought. He thanked Llewelyn passionately, and his lord looked at
him with considerable amusement, but he only gave him leave to go without
extraneous comment.

They went as far as Powys castle that night and slept soft
and dry, for there was peace—at that moment—between its lord and Prince
Llewelyn. The next day, Simon sent Siorl with most of the men to Krogen. Echtor
and four others continued north and west with him. They camped on the shore of
Llyn Tegid that night and then crept over the mountains, mostly leading their
horses rather than riding them, to arrive at Angharad’s Hall in time for
dinner. Kicva did not seem surprised to see them, and Simon guessed they had
been watched and their progress reported for many miles.

For the first time since he left Rhiannon at Aber, Simon’s
confidence was shaken. He had expected her to drop out of the hills any time
since noon of that day, but she had not. And now she was not even present to
greet him in her mother’s house, where she had told him he would be welcome.
However, his sinking heart was lifted by Kicva’s smile.

“I have a letter for you from Prince Llewelyn,” Simon said
after greeting her, but his eyes asked,
Where is Rhiannon?

Kicva took the letter and looked at the broad seal, which
marked it as an official communication rather than as a friendly note. Then her
eyes flicked to her loom, where a heavy roll of fabric lay beneath the portion
on which she was still working. It was good, she thought, that she had not
hesitated in her task. And then she had mercy on poor Simon, who was shifting
from foot to foot with the impatience of a small child who cannot bear to wait
but is afraid to speak.

“Out on the hill,” she said, answering the question in his
eyes, and began to ask whether Simon wished to eat before he went—but he was
gone, and she laughed at her own silliness and opened Llewelyn’s letter.

In spite of the official-looking seal, it
was
friendly in tone rather than imperative, and it contained some matters of
considerable interest aside from the message Kicva had expected. Llewelyn had
found over many years of difficult dealings with King John that the best
unofficial ambassador is a woman. First of all, nine out of ten men dealing
with a woman are at a grave disadvantage by thinking her stupid and of no account
by nature. Then, when pleading is necessary, a woman would go down on her knees
and rain tears without shame. Provided the woman was clever, she could obtain
more information more quickly than most men—she would not be suspect; a man
would. And most men, particularly King Henry, who had chivalric dreams, found
it much harder to imprison, punish, or threaten a woman, even if she were taken
as a hostage.

For many years Llewelyn had thus employed his wife Joan. Now
that was impossible. What he had proposed to Kicva was to use Rhiannon instead.
At first sight the idea was ludicrous. Rhiannon had no knowledge of a complex,
corrupt Court like that of Henry of England and had no connection with it. Joan
had been King John’s daughter and Henry’s half sister, but Rhiannon was no
relative at all. Nor was she famous for tact or likely to become a favorite
with the women of the Court.

However, when taken in context with the proposal of marriage
to Simon, the idea suddenly began to look possible, even promising. Llewelyn
gave Kicva a brief summary of Simon’s family. Kicva knew Ian; in fact she had
considered him as a father for her child before she fixed on Llewelyn. It
seemed as if the women would be the most likely of any to accept Rhiannon. And,
for Llewelyn’s purposes, the intimacy of Lord Geoffrey with the king was almost
as valuable as Joan’s blood tie.

Kicva smiled to herself when she thought how clever Llewelyn
was, for the thing worked both ways. To couple the marriage with a most
necessary duty to her father and to Gwynedd was to provide a perfect excuse for
Rhiannon to back down from her refusal to marry. This would save her pride and
make Simon very happy also. It was typical of Llewelyn and the key to his
success as a ruler that he so often found a way to benefit his subjects—at no
cost to himself—while they performed duties necessary to his purposes. Having
read the letter a second time, Kicva settled before her loom while she
considered how best to present the facts to Rhiannon. She worked quickly while
she thought; there would not be many days to finish this piece of work before
it was needed.

Hours earlier when the first message announcing the arrival
of visitors was called across the valleys from hilltop to hilltop, Rhiannon
knew it was Simon coming. Of course, each of the three warnings of a visitor
over the past two weeks had, in her opinion, heralded Simon, but this time she
was certain again. For a short time she sat still, fighting the urge to run out
and meet him. It would be horrible, she knew, to meet under the eyes of all the
people in the hall or the courtyards. Even in the garden, maids and men would
peep, murmuring to each other that Lady Rhiannon had at last chosen a man. But
it would be little better to meet surrounded by Simon’s men, unable to touch
him or ask the questions she wanted to ask.

Her mother was
not
looking at her. She had begun to
make ready for the guests, telling the servants where to place the bed that
would be set up for Simon’s use and to which stable to take his horses, issuing
instructions to the cooks for an extra dish or two to add festivity to the
meal. There was nothing in Kicva’s voice, expression, or manner to show that
she was even aware of her daughter. Nonetheless, Rhiannon felt the mingled
amusement and sympathy. She controlled a desire to scream. It never paid to
scream at Kicva, who merely looked at one with laughter or scorn in her quiet
eyes.

Math stalked into the hall, his tail twitching from side to
side. He crossed to where Rhiannon sat and looked up at her. There was no
sympathy in his eyes and he was not offering the comfort of his roaring purr.
Restraining a desire to kick Math, who was
not
laughing at her, Rhiannon
rose to her feet with all the dignity she could muster and did what Math and
Kicva—and all the others in the hall—were waiting for her to do.

“If you want me,” she said to the open space of the hall, “I
will be on the hill.”

Simon did not need to ask Kicva which hill and eagerness
lent wings to his feet. Had Rhiannon intended to hide from him, she would have
fled into the forest. This particular hill was one of her favorite spots when
she wanted to be away from the bustle of the hall and yet still remain close
by. It was some half-mile from the house up a steep rise where some fall of
land or ancient excavation had created a cuplike hollow, bare of trees and
facing south. The depression caught and held the heat of the sun so that from
early spring until the deep snow fell it was warm enough to sit there and read
or dream.

Never having ridden to the place when he had been at
Angharad’s Hall in the spring, Simon did not think of mounting Ymlladd.
However, when he had gone to the hill with Rhiannon, he had not been burdened
with mail and a heavy cloak. He was gasping for breath as he came up the final
rise, but the sight of Rhiannon standing tensely waiting gave him one more
burst of strength and he leapt the last ledge and ran toward her.

Rhiannon ran also. They met with such eagerness and so
little caution that a most unromantic
ooff
was wrenched from both as
they collided. They clung together, off balance, laughing.

“Are you whole, Simon?” Rhiannon asked when she could speak.
“Are you safe and whole?”

“Yes, of course. How silly you are. You see me in excellent
health.”

“Then why are you breathing so hard?”

“If I had a speck of common sense, I would say that your
beauty had rendered me breathless, but I am incurably truthful. I must confess
it is because mail was not designed to be worn while climbing hills.”

“Truthful!” Rhiannon exclaimed, laughing heartily. “You are
a monster of deceit. You only tell the truth when you will profit by it.”

“That is a gross injustice,” Simon complained, dropping his
cloak to the ground and fumbling at the lacing of his hood.

“Very well,” Rhiannon conceded, pushing away his hands and
loosening the ties for him. “Perhaps you also tell the truth when you know a
lie would be easily found out.” Before he could protest again, she asked.
“Shall I take the hauberk off altogether?”

Simon hesitated, sensing some kind of game, but then agreed.
He had to bend his knees to make himself short enough for Rhiannon to pull the
mail shirt over his head. When he stood up again, the cool breeze of
mid-September was like a shower of cold water. He breathed deeply with
refreshment, watching Rhiannon fold the heavy steel rings of his mail into a
long bundle that could be carried over his shoulder. Now the slight nip in the
air became chilly rather than refreshing, and his sweat-wet woolen under-tunic
lay clammily against his body. Simon dropped to a squat beside Rhiannon where
the wind could not be so free with him.

“I love you,” he said softly. “You know what I desire before
I know it myself. I gave no thought to our meeting. I was too taken up with
eagerness to think. Yet if it had not been thus—perfect—it would have cast a
shadow.”

“Perfect? That we should run into each other like two oafs
or wild children…” Her voice faded, and when she spoke again the jesting
sharpness had gone out of it. “I did give thought to it.”

“Then I am of import to you?”

Rhiannon left the bundle of mail and lifted her eyes. “You
know that. I have never tried to deny it.”

“You do not care for me as—as a brother? A friend?”

“No, Simon. I desire you as a lover. This, too, you know.
Why do you ask?”

“Do you dislike me, Rhiannon?”

She stared at him, utterly perplexed. “I am beginning to
think you a little mad. Of course I do not dislike you. If I desire that you be
my lover, how could I dislike you?”

“I have desired women that I disliked very much,” Simon
said. “The two things have little to do with each other.”

“Not for me!” Rhiannon exclaimed distastefully.

“You must love where you desire?”

“It seems so—yes,” she admitted.

“Then you love me,” Simon insisted.

“Yes, but…”

“But what?” he asked eagerly. “Rhiannon, tell me.”

She dropped her eyes. “I cannot bear to hurt you.”

Simon sighed and sat down on the ground, stretching his long
legs to ease the pinch of the mail hosen.

“Let me take those off also,” Rhiannon suggested.

She reached for the ties that held the hosen up, but Simon
caught her hands. “It is ridiculous to say you cannot bear to hurt me and yet
refuse to marry me. What can hurt me more than that? Perhaps if you tell me
why—”