Rhiannon (3 page)

“Because, I suppose, you came in spring or summer. I am
seldom at any keep then. I go to my mother’s place, Angharad’s Hall, in the
hills, after the New Year’s festival in March. Why are you here in the dead of
winter, Sir Simon?”

“The lands are mine now, and I must oversee them in all
seasons. I will be here in Wales always—except at such short times as I visit
my family.”

There was an odd expression in Rhiannon’s face, approval mingled
with apprehension; however, all she said was, “You say so, but you will soon
tire of our barbaric ways and hie you back to the softer air of England.”

Simon laughed. “No one can know the future, but it is very
amusing that it is foretold so differently for me on each side of the border.
My family sent me here because they believed I could not be content with the
tame ways of Sussex. Now you tell me I will soon tire of the wild ways of
Wales. I do not think so. I do not think I will ever wish to leave my lands,
except for some small times to be with those I love.”

“You are too young to know what you believe,” Rhiannon said
sharply, as if she were trying to convince herself.

“Ah, grandmother,” Simon teased, “your gray hair and
wrinkles make me sure the wisdom of great age infuses the words you speak. How
old are you, Rhiannon? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

“I am one and twenty, and women are always older than men.”
She paused, bit her lip, and said even more sharply, “And when did I so shame
myself that I have descended from Lady Rhiannon to Rhiannon alone?”

“I beg your pardon, my lady.” Simon bowed deeply and without
mockery, but his eyes still twinkled with mischief. “No affront was intended.
You so enchanted me with your time-won knowledge of men that for a moment I
lost my sense of propriety and spoke as a man to his loved one, without
formality.”

“You never had a grain of propriety to lose,” Rhiannon
snapped, but the corners of her mouth turned upward. “Do you not know it is
highly improper to ask a woman’s age? And do not bother to find another smooth
reply. I am not your beloved—”

“Yes, you are,” Simon interrupted. “You may refuse to love
me, but you cannot stop me from loving you.”

At which point, Rhiannon gave in and began to laugh again.
She put out her hand. “Come, let us be friends. I would like to be the friend
of a man who does not fear the voices in the winds around Dinas Emrys, and who
has firmly decided he is in love with me after half an hour’s acquaintance.”

But Simon would not take her hand. “I do not wish to be your
friend,” he said seriously. “I want to be your husband. This is not the time or
place for passionate declarations, so I speak lightly, but I have never said
those words to any woman and I have—as you said—known many.”

“In the names of Danu and Anu, if this is not a jest—why?”

“I do not know,” Simon replied with perfect honesty. “I only
know that I felt for you, while you were singing, and feel now, what I have
never felt before.”

Rhiannon took his hand and held it between hers. “Today, you
feel; tomorrow, you will forget. It was the strangeness of my song and my
dress, perhaps. Love comes and goes, but friendship endures.”

“Both endure when they are true. It is an easy enough matter
to prove. Let me attend you. If I weary of your company, I will soon drift away
from it.”

There was a silence while Rhiannon seemed to consider this
proposition. Simon could not read her expression; her green eyes were empty as
clear water. After a moment she smiled very slightly and said, “Very well,
since that is your desire, and because you amuse me. But I warn you now that I
do not believe I will ever marry any man. To give my heart and soul into
another’s keeping—no! Now I have warned you. If you wish to play with fire, do
not cry when you are burnt.”

There was neither winner nor loser of the challenges
exchanged—or, rather, both lost and won equally. Simon attended Rhiannon at
court and escorted her to Angharad’s Hall, her mother’s home, which left him
open-mouthed in surprise. It was just as Rhiannon had named it, a hall, built
of wood, much like a large barn but with windows and hearths, hard to find but
otherwise indefensible. Later, in the early spring, Simon took her to Dinas
Emrys.

That she should come alone to his keep, without a maid or
any other protection, shocked Simon a little, even his mother was not so bold
and free. Yet he found it was impossible for him to take advantage of the
situation. At court he had pursued her with words of love and glances of
longing. Under her mother’s roof, he had made open declarations of his
honorable intent to Rhiannon and to Kicva, whom he found not at all fearful,
but worthy of respect. At Dinas Emrys, where Rhiannon was utterly in his power,
he could find neither words nor looks to express the desire that burned ever
more fiercely within him.

Yet it was there that trouble crept into Rhiannon’s eyes. At
court she had fenced with him, laughed at him, and teased him with love songs.
At her mother’s house, she treated him as if he were a companion of the same
sex—not that she expected him to weave and sew, but that she seemed to lose
awareness of his maleness. Loose in the hills, Rhiannon was more man than
woman. Barefoot, she coursed the deer with her mother’s hounds, as sure a shot
with the longbow as any huntsman; she tickled fish in the streams, and snared
hares in the brush. She butchered and skinned her prey, cached what was too
heavy to carry, and even cooked over an open fire and slept rolled in her cloak
on the ground if they were too far from home.

At Dinas Emrys, however, for the first time since their
initial meeting, Rhiannon looked more often at Simon than he looked at her. She
stood long on the walls gazing out over the Vale of Waters during the day. At
night she climbed up again to listen to the wind as it whispered and moaned and
howled. The men of Simon’s guard, Welsh born and bred in that country, wild as
the rocky crags, lowered their eyes and bowed to her when she passed, and there
were both fear and admiration on their faces when Simon stood by her on the
walls as she sang—and the wind answered.

Here again she wore the barbarically rich gowns and hung her
neck and ears and hair with gems. Here she sang for the first time in Simon’s
hearing of Rhiannon of the Birds and her sorrow and her joys—how she married
Pwyll, Prince of Dyfedd, and how she was accused of murdering her son Pryderi.
And when she sang of the love between Pwyll and Rhiannon, how he stood by her
even when she was accused of murdering her own babe, she looked at Simon—and
there was trouble in her clear eyes. But later, when the song was done, she
told Simon she wished to leave the next day.

Although he was bitterly disappointed, he could not urge her
to stay where he was master, and he bowed and asked, “Where shall I take you,
my lady?”

“I will go alone or with what escort you care to send with
me, but not with you,” Rhiannon answered, and for the first time since they
met, her eyes were lowered before him. “You have won the contest, my lord, and
I must seek safety from you in flight.”

“That is a bitter winning to me, Lady Rhiannon,” Simon said.
“You know I have not grown weary of you. I cannot urge my suit here where you
have no recourse, no protector, but you must know that you have become more
precious, more desirable, not less. The more I have of you, the more I crave.”

“You are stubborn; you have recently seen no others. Go back
to England, my lord. I will play this game no longer. So much comfort I will
give you as this—you are dangerous to me. If I have the power to hurt you, as
you have to hurt me, you are better off in England. I will not marry you.
Remember, I bade you not cry if you were burnt. Now let me go and do not pursue
me.”

“Simon.”

There was an urgent tug at his sleeve, and Simon was shaken
out of his unhappy memories. He turned from them gladly, however, a smile
replacing the rather grim set of his mouth when he saw that it was Sybelle,
Joanna’s eldest daughter, who was demanding his attention. Simon loved all his
family, but Sybelle was someone special. She was only six years younger than
he, and he had played with her in her cradle and been her closest friend and
confidant all her life.

“Where have you been?” Simon asked.

“Keeping the children away from Grandpapa and Grandmama or
they would never have been ready. You know what he is—always willing to listen
or to play or to tell another story. Tostig has young Adam now, and the girls
are at their weaving. What are you looking so black about?”

“Rhiannon,” Simon replied shortly. Sybelle was Simon’s
confidante as he was hers. It was a great relief to him to have a woman friend.
He had mothers and lovers in abundance; Alinor and Joanna were forever giving
him well-meant and acerbic advice, and, although Gilliane was never sharp, she,
too, offered advice and gentle reproof rather than simple attention. All other
women seemed to regard him as a sexual object. Simon had not the least
objection to this, but, of course, he could not speak of other women to a woman
who wanted him for herself. Sybelle alone never seemed to notice his
appearance, except in an impersonal way—for example, to say his face was dirty
or his hair needed combing—and she listened to his adventures with amusement
and interest. “But I did not mean you in particular,” Sybelle said, not
commenting on Simon’s answer directly. There was nothing more she could say
about Rhiannon. “Everyone looks as if we have suffered a death in the family.”

“Oh, that.” The frown returned to Simon’s face. “It is this
summons to the council sent out by the king. Council! Either he wishes to
squeeze more money from us, or he wishes us to confirm his tyrannies by our
attendance. Certainly he has no desire for advice.”

“From what Walter said the last time he came to visit Papa—”

“I do not think Walter de Clare comes to visit your father.”
Simon laughed.

Sybelle made a face at him but continued as if he had not
interrupted her. “There will be little meekness in the attendance.” Then she
shrugged. “But I think you are all mad. Two years ago you were all reviling
Hubert de Burgh, calling him a power-mad upstart and urging the king to curb
him. Now, all of a sudden, he is a holy martyr.”

“No, Sybelle, you exaggerate. Naturally it was necessary to
curb de Burgh. Through Henry’s indifference, the chancellor was growing more
powerful than the king. He was trying to drive a wedge between Henry and his
brother Richard also, taking young Gloucester into his own care instead of
letting him go with his mother when she married Cornwall. And too much of the
kingdom’s money was finding its way into de Burgh’s coffers instead of
Henry’s—which made the king cry poverty and squeeze us.”

“I know that. So then why is there now such a great outcry
on de Burgh’s behalf?”

“Because the king has gone too far. It was reasonable to
deprive de Burgh of his power and of his ill-gotten gains. I suppose it was
even necessary to keep him under control. There were so many who regarded him
as a benefactor or who feared him, that he might have regained his power if he
were at large. We all agreed to that, and Ferrars, Cornwall, Warrene, and
Richard Marshal went surety for him to place him in honorable confinement.”

“So that was what Walter meant when he started to rave about
Henry not trusting to the honor of the two men dearest to him. He meant
Cornwall and Richard Marshal! Walter was so angry that I could hardly make head
or tail of what he said, but I gathered that the king dismissed the guards
assigned by de Burgh’s wardens and set others in their place.”

“Walter told you that?” Simon remarked, grinning. Until he had
met the women of Roselynde, Walter had been prone to say women had no room for
anything but the roots of their hair inside their heads. Now he was discussing
politics with Sybelle.

“Never mind Walter,” Sybelle insisted. “Why did the king
change de Burgh’s guards?”

“It is beyond me,” Simon admitted. “God knows Richard
Marshal and Richard of Cornwall had no love for de Burgh. They were at his
throat all along. Warrene and Ferrars were less opposed, perhaps, but their
first loyalty is to Henry and certainly neither of them would have countenanced
de Burgh’s escape or his meddling in the realm’s governance again.”

“Then it was spite,” Sybelle said distastefully. “The king
was not satisfied that de Burgh should be comfortable in his imprisonment. He
wished him to suffer.”

“No,” Simon contradicted slowly. “I do not like Henry, but
he is not a man to be cruel for the sake of cruelty alone. It is true that he
has increased the severity of the conditions under which de Burgh is held—I
have even heard that the old man is kept manacled—but there is some other
reason, not simply a desire to be cruel.”

“Why not?”

“Henry docs not enjoy making others suffer—that much I know
of him. Besides, if cruelty was the purpose, Henry would have gone to gloat
over de Burgh, to relish his tears and groans. That he has never done.”

“No, that is true. In fact, Papa was saying that the king
cannot bear to listen to a report on de Burgh’s condition. But why—”

“I think Henry is still afraid of the man,” Simon said
slowly, frowning in thought rather than anger or distaste. It was always good
for him to talk to Sybelle because while explaining to her he straightened out
matters in his own mind. “Papa once said that when Henry was a boy, he was
always a little afraid of de Burgh. He loved the old Earl of Pembroke, you can
tell that when he talks of him to this day, and the Bishop of Winchester
fascinated him—and still does—but it seems to me that Papa must be right. When
Henry speaks of de Burgh it is almost like a boy who has escaped from a harsh
tutor and cannot really believe he has escaped.”

“But surely the king must have got over that feeling. It is
more than a year—”

“I hope you are wrong,” Simon interrupted, his frown
deepening. “If it is not for that reason, then the king has done what Walter
believes—that is, changed the guards as a deliberate affront to Richard
Marshal.”

“But why, Simon? I cannot get any sense out of Walter when I
ask. He gets so angry he sputters and chokes. And I do not like to ask Papa. He
is so unhappy about the king’s behavior.”

“Are you sure it is the king’s behavior that makes Walter
sputter and choke?” Simon teased. “You grow more beautiful every day, Sybelle.”

That was not a fond uncle’s flattery. Sybelle was as
beautiful as her mother, if less flamboyant. In Sybelle, Joanna’s flame-red
hair was muted to a deep golden bronze, and she had her father’s changeable
light-brown eyes, bright as new-minted gold when she was happy. Her skin was
also a blend of her mother’s milk-white and Geoffrey’s warmer complexion. Altogether,
Sybelle was a golden girl, warm and rich as honey in the sun.

“Never mind that,” Sybelle said dismissively. She liked to
be flattered as well as the next girl, and she enjoyed Simon’s frank approval,
but at the moment she did not want Simon to be diverted from the political
subject to teasing her about Walter de Clare’s interest and the possibility
that he would offer for her.

Agreeably, Simon returned to the original subject. “You mean
why the king wishes to affront Richard Marshal? I am not sure. There is a rumor
that Richard stood against him when the king wanted Margaret of Scotland, but I
cannot really believe Richard would interfere in such a matter. Then there was
the crazy rumor that de Burgh had poisoned William Marshal so that Richard could
inherit. The idea was that William had too much influence with the king.
Supposedly, de Burgh would be able to control Richard. But I know that was not
true. William was my lord, and I was with him when he died.” Simon’s eyes
clouded with remembered pain. He had loved the man he had served as page and
squire almost as dearly as he loved his father, and he had grieved bitterly for
him.

Sybelle patted his hand. “I know, Simon,” she said softly.
“But it is mad! Why should Henry dislike the younger brother if he liked the
eldest? You loved William, but you do not hate Richard.”

“I told you I did not know. Perhaps it is the association
with the French. Richard took over his father’s French lands and had not been
much in England until he inherited. Henry is not the most reasonable of men.
But the business of changing de Burgh’s guards may be another case of the king
wishing to prove he is the master of us all.”

“Well, but—but he is,” Sybelle said uncertainly.

“In a way, yes. His vassals are sworn to uphold him and
their vassals to uphold him through their overlords. But—and this is a most
important but—the king is bound by certain oaths and laws and customs. The king
may not break these any more than a vassal may break his oath. One of the oaths
he has sworn is to uphold Magna Carta, which his father signed, and one
provision of that charter—to call a council with his barons and consider their
wills—he has broken most often.”

“I say again you are all mad.” Sybelle sighed. “If you wish
the king to take counsel, why such long faces when he has called a council?”

“Because Henry has no intention of asking for or listening
to advice,” Simon replied angrily. “He has called a council so that his barons
should approve what he has already done.”

“Then I must suppose he is mad also,” Sybelle remarked in an
exasperated voice. “Surely the king must know that Richard Marshal is not
tamely going to swallow the dismissal of William de Rodune. After all, he was
Richard’s own deputy to the court. The king had no right to dismiss him. If he
wanted him gone, he should have told Richard. Only Richard could take his
office from him.”

Simon grinned at her. “How do you know that? Since when have
you become an expert on feudal rights?”

“Since I have been considering marriage. All men these days
seem to become incoherent when they speak of the king. I have no desire to say
the wrong thing. It is because I must often stand in Mama’s place at Hemel or
in London.”

Her voice faltered a little and her eyes moved to Ian, who
was laughing heartily at something Gilliane had said. He looked well now, but
he had been very ill twice during the winter, and Joanna had taken over her
mother’s duties while Alinor nursed her husband. This had left Sybelle to act
as her father’s hostess and sometimes even as chatelaine all alone. Simon’s
glance followed hers. It was clear he understood her concern, but neither of
them spoke of it.

“Everyone is so touchy these days,” Sybelle went on. “I do
not wish to add a woodenheaded remark as fuel to the flames.”

“No, you are quite right. Sometimes I feel that I will burst
myself—and I am not even deeply involved, since my lands are in Wales. It is
Winchester, all Winchester,
I
think.”

“My father thinks so too, although he does not say too much
because there was an old friendship between Grandpapa and the bishop.”

Simon nodded. He had been wrong to oppose attending the
council. Really, there was no other way to determine who pulled the strings
causing this unhappy dance. He found, however, when he and Sybelle joined the
larger group, that they were discussing a danger he had never considered. The
council might be a trap for those who opposed the king’s—or Winchester’s—will.
Since there were many ways to spring such a trap, the family’s forces were
divided. Alinor, Joanna, and Gilliane would remain in Roselynde to rally their
husbands’ vassals should the need arise. Sybelle alone would accompany the men
of the family to run Alinor’s house on the northwest bank of the Thames and see
to their comfort.

They had barely settled into the house on the ninth of July
when Walter de Clare rode in. He had had a man watching to notify him of
Geoffrey’s arrival, and it was clear that he was surprised to see the male
contingent in full force. He was even more surprised to see Sybelle, and after
his first sensation of pleasure, he was not pleased.

“I do not know whether it is wise for you to be here, any of
you—except Lord Geoffrey,” Walter said, “and especially not you, Lady Sybelle.”

Sybelle started to ask why not her especially, but her
father gestured abruptly for her to be silent and she acquiesced, realizing
this was no time to discuss the right of a woman to share her menfolk’s danger.

“What do you mean?” Ian asked. “We were summoned to the
council for July eleventh. Is it not to be?”

“Most likely not,” Walter replied. “Had you not heard that
nearly all the lords have refused to come unless Henry dismisses the Bishop of
Winchester and Peter of Rivaulx?”

“Again?” Geoffrey asked. “But this was the same message they
sent on the Feast of Saint John, when they refused to come to Oxford. All that
happened was that the king grew so furious he was about to issue a decree
compelling attendance and cry outlawry on those who failed to comply. Who is
here?”

“Cornwall, Norfolk, Ferrars… It is said Pembroke is on his
way.”

“Fools!” Geoffrey exclaimed. “If they are to be declared
outlaw, at least they should have their say for it. Henry will—”

“I told you I should have sent word to my vassals to shut
themselves into their keeps,” Adam growled.

“Gilliane will see to it if it is necessary,” Sybelle
soothed.

Walter looked at the most attractive woman he knew as if she
had sprouted a second head, then glanced at Adam to see whether he would laugh
at the joke. Adam, however, merely nodded acknowledgment. He knew Gilliane
would do what was necessary. His statement had been a mark of irritation, not
an expression of a real anxiety. Before Walter could remark on so startling an
idea, he was diverted by Ian.