Rhiannon (7 page)

“And you may be sure that I will do my uttermost that you
avoid each other. But this is going too far. I have no intention of making war
on the king. God forbid! He is my lord. I have given my oath to support him—”

“In all that is right,” Simon inserted quickly. “Not in
oppressing his people, robbing them, imprisoning them—”

“That is true, but still I would not wage war against my
overlord if any other path is open to making him mend his ways. Let us not talk
of such extreme measures. Perhaps I am too much moved by what you have told me.
What I should have asked is whether you would be willing—should it become
necessary—to be an emissary for me to Lord Llewelyn.”

“Of course,” Simon answered, almost too quickly, then
flushed.

A violent joy suffused him. When Rhiannon had bid him go at
the end of May, he had done so, telling himself furiously that she was quite
right. No doubt he was ensorcelled by her presence. If he returned to the
civilized and elegant women of England, he would soon grow disdainful of her
wild, primitive charm. Only he had not been able even to try. Such a sense of
disgust filled him each time he began a flirtation that he fled away. He could
not even take joy in those old partners he did not need to woo, who did not
demand sweet words but only desired the sensual pleasure his strong, skilled
body could provide. He could ease his body, just as he could use a chamber pot,
but there was no pleasure in it. He desired only Rhiannon.

By June, Simon would have been on his way back to Wales,
ready, like the courtly lovers in romances whom he had always ridiculed, to
plead for a smile, a look, a single word—except that he knew Rhiannon would say
he had not been away long enough. Pride, too, warred with love and might have
lost if he had not been caught up in the political problems the king was
creating. Still, Simon was not yet directly concerned with the actions of the
English king. He would not be directly affected by Henry’s lunacies until Ian died
and Simon did homage for the northern lands. However, what happened in England
always affected Wales. Besides, Simon knew it was useful to have firsthand
knowledge of what was going on, rather than garbled rumors or the sometimes
deliberately slanted news in his mother’s letters. Alinor was a great one for
bending the truth a little this way or that to forward her own purposes.

This, coupled with the fact that Simon knew he could not say
to Rhiannon
I have been constant
without sounding ridiculous when he had
been away for less than three months, kept him from returning to her. Now,
however, Richard was offering him the perfect excuse to do what he ached to do.
Even if he were not sent back to Wales at once, there would be high excitement
in being with Richard Marshal and—whatever the earl said about not wanting to
oppose the king—Simon was sure there would be fighting. That would at least
serve to take his mind off Rhiannon.

“If you will give me leave, my lord,” Simon said quickly, “I
will bring back my men with me when I bring Geoffrey and my father. Then I can
accompany you when you go.”

“I will be happy to have you, having come with only four
men, but do you think it wise to associate yourself with me so openly? Will
Lord Ian be willing?”

“He will be so glad to be rid of me,” Simon said merrily,
“that he would welcome it if I accompanied the Devil himself. He thinks me too
outspoken.” Then he added more soberly, “If you would consent to a small
subterfuge, my lord, and play the part of one of my men-at-arms until we are
clear of the gates, you would be safer, and the question of my being in your
company would never arise.”

Simon was a little afraid Richard would be insulted by the
notion that he should conceal himself, but Richard was too practical to allow
false pride to endanger him. “Good!” Richard exclaimed. “Excellent! I do not
believe I was noticed coming in, and if I am not remarked leaving, it will be
less trouble all around. Also, it will be better if you are not known by the
court to be my man. If I wish to reach the king’s ear, I will be able to do so
through you and Lord Geoffrey. By all means, I will be your man-at-arms, with a
heavy cloak to cover my mail—you can say I have a fever, if asked.”

It was obvious that Richard had become convinced by Simon’s
warning and had accepted the necessity of flight. His later conversation with
Ian and Geoffrey confirmed that beyond doubt. Geoffrey had heard enough to be
sure and make Richard sure that there was a definite plan afoot now to seize
him, which would make him an even more powerful object lesson and would destroy
the focal point of all opposition to the king. Geoffrey looked haggard as he
related what he knew.

“It is a sickness,” Ian said, his voice shaking a little.
“This is not Henry—I swear it is not. He looks and talks like a man raving with
fever. I have known Henry all his life, from a babe, and he is a loving person
who greatly desires to do good.”

“I cannot understand it,” Richard agreed. “It is not as if
Henry even
enjoyed
the business of ruling. You know he was happy to
leave that in de Burgh’s hands. William wrote me often enough to complain that
whenever he brought a matter to the king’s notice he would be told to ask the
Earl of Kent.”

“No, Henry does not enjoy the business of ruling—but Winchester
does,” Geoffrey said tiredly.

“That is silly,” Simon remarked. “If the king does not wish
to hold the reins in his own hands, why should he go to the trouble of casting
out de Burgh only to put Winchester in his place?”

“There were reasons enough,” Geoffrey replied. “For one
thing, the barons were all crying that de Burgh had grown too great. There was
some truth in it, but there was also considerable ill will because Hubert was
foolish in one thing only. He believed that if he were truly devoted to the
interests of the king and the kingdom, he did not need to use smooth words to
explain what he did.”

Richard Marshal snorted. “I know that, too. He set up
William’s back, and you know William was not one to seek a quarrel. There was a
matter of a parcel of land that he settled in William’s favor, but he was so
coarse that William was more affronted than if he had settled it against
William’s right.”

Geoffrey sighed. “That was what really ruined the
chancellor—that manner. It was not only the barons that he treated without
proper dignity—it was the king also. He acted always as if Henry were an
ignorant child.”

That time Simon snorted, and Geoffrey looked at him
reprovingly.

“The king is no fool,” he said sharply, “and do not ever
think he is. Unfortunately, he is not interested, really, in governing. He
loves other things better—beautiful churches, music, books, fine clothes,
merriment—but his mind is very good. De Burgh fell because when Henry said he
wanted something, the chancellor replied, ‘No, do not be a fool.’ De Burgh
should have sought a way to satisfy the king’s desires or distract him from
them, although usually they were not bad in themselves. But de Burgh was too
busy governing. Henry was only a figure to mouth his words and sign his decrees—and
Henry felt it.”

“Yes,” Ian agreed, “you are right. I think Henry tried to
win Hubert’s love. I suppose in his own style Hubert
did
love him, but
he did not show it in the right way. Henry needs to be loved—needs it. That
father and mother…”

He closed his eyes and shuddered. Richard nodded in
sympathy. He had spent some years in John’s court as a hostage for his father’s
behavior. He was somewhat surprised at the violence of Ian’s reaction because
he did not know that Ian understood that part of Henry all too well. Ian had
himself been cruelly mistreated as a child. Geoffrey’s lips twisted. There was
nothing anyone could say about Henry’s mother that was too bad as far as he was
concerned. That vain and heartless woman had made four years of Geoffrey’s life
a hell of misery. Nonetheless, he did not lose track of the point he was trying
to make.

“Winchester is more clever. He does not offend the king in
the same way. He treats him with great deference, and even allows him to work
at kingship until he begins to be bored. Most of all, he does not tell Henry
that the beautiful things he loves are a waste. It is
most
unfortunate
that Winchester does not understand this realm. He could manage the king very
well, if only he could be brought to see that absolute power will never be
accepted by the lords.”

“Yes, and he has even infected Henry with the idea that he
is ‘divinely’ king,” Ian said. “Winchester seems to forget that the oaths we
swear work both ways. The king has duties and obligations to us just as we have
to him.”

“True enough,” Richard agreed. “Moreover, there are laws and
customs that no king can ignore. If those are not held by king and man alike,
there can be no order, no security in the realm. No man could trust the king or
any other man. The law must be upheld by all.”

“And Henry knows this,” Ian insisted. “Your father taught
him and de Burgh also—he abode by the law, however unfortunate his manner of
doing it. I say again that what Henry has is a sickness, a fever roused in him
by Winchester’s mistaken ideas. There is no deep, basic fault in the king as
there was in his father.”

Richard did not answer directly. He agreed with Ian only to
a certain extent. He had been a child in court when Henry was a younger child,
and he knew the king’s capacity for spite and deceit. However, he also knew
Henry’s capacity for loving and giving. Richard agreed that the king was acting
out of character in this current violent severity. Henry did not enjoy
severity. The king was very generous; he liked to give and to be thanked for
it. He did not like to face anxiety and animosity and criticism and could not
bear to be blamed for any fault.

“Well and so, but what do you recommend that I do?” Richard
asked.

“Go back to your own lands, my lord,” Geoffrey replied
promptly.

“Even if I be outlawed?”

Geoffrey was silent for a moment; he hated to say what he
must say, for loyalty conflicted with justice. “Yes,” he got out at last. “Hold
your lands, my lord, with force if you must, although I hope it will not come
to that. It would be harder to regain what had fallen into the king’s hands—and
your efforts to regain your own would wake new anger and resentment. If Henry
holds nothing of yours, which he might be tempted to give another—”

There was a multiple, inarticulate sound. Every man there
knew of Henry’s predilection to giving away what was not his—particularly to
foreign relatives and suppliants.

Geoffrey glanced around but did not comment directly. “It
will be much easier to forgive and forget,” he continued, “if the king does not
need to disgorge what is bringing money into his purse or, perhaps, deprive a
favorite of what he has gifted to him. To keep such a prize, there would be a
temptation to maintain the state of enmity. You know how he has stripped de
Burgh, little by little, of everything he could.”

“I agree,” Ian said emphatically. “Only stay out of his
hands until he has recovered from this fever, and all will be well. The words
of outlawry are easily revoked when no other real amends must be made.”

By the end of the first week of August, the doubts Kicva had
felt about the need for a wedding dress for Rhiannon were dissipated. Rhiannon
was ready to leave for her father’s court, and Math had chosen to go with her.
Growling with rage, but not attempting to tear his way out, which he could do
and would do if he did not wish to go, Math sat in his traveling basket on the
croup of Rhiannon’s palfrey. If Math was going, there was no chance that
Rhiannon would make any serious mistake.

Kicva was highly amused by the relationship between her
daughter and the big cat; obviously Math believed he owned Rhiannon rather than
the other way around. And Rhiannon seemed to accept it. However, the fondness
Kicva had for Math was not shared by Llewelyn, who kissed his daughter warmly
enough in greeting but groaned when a bedlam of barking from the dogs was
followed by yelps of pain and fear.

“Have you brought that monster with you again?” he cried.
“Do you not know a cat is no fit pet for a gentlewoman?”

“Math is not my pet,” Rhiannon replied, laughing. “I am
his—or, perhaps, we are friends, although he may not regard me highly enough
for that honor.”

“I hoped he was dead when you did not bring him last
winter,” Llewelyn said sourly.

The dogs having been routed, Math stalked solemnly up the
hall, stopping before Llewelyn’s chair to regard him with an unwinking stare.
The ruler of many men sighed. Math flitted his tail, seemingly contemptuous of
what he saw, and walked on past Llewelyn toward the door that led to the hall
of women. Rhiannon burst out laughing again at the look on her father’s face
and embraced and kissed him warmly. Llewelyn looked almost as surprised as if
the cat had done it, but very pleased.

“Now, what has won me such a rare display of affection?” he
asked fondly.

“Your own love for me, of course,” Rhiannon replied.
“Greater love no man can show than to endure Math for my sake.”

That restored Llewelyn’s good humor completely, and he asked
pleasantly for news of Kicva and the homestead. He did not ask why Rhiannon had
come, assuming it was the usual combination of affection for him and a need for
more varied company and conversation than could be obtained in Angharad’s Hall.

After a week, however, he began to wonder. Rhiannon was
inviting attention from the young bucks of the court in a way she never had
before. Llewelyn was not too pleased; he had hoped she would take Simon, if she
took anyone. When the second week had passed, Llewelyn was even less pleased.
He began to fear that Rhiannon planned to choose her man in the ancient way;
whoever survived the combat over her would take her. He could have stopped it,
of course, by sending her away, but in a way it was useful. It was grossly
inhibiting the favorite summer sport of raiding English strongholds in Wales and
on the border. At the moment, Llewelyn did not want any action of his men to
divert the attention of the English from the iniquities of their king and his
ministers.

After the drubbing Henry had taken in 1231 and the
rebuilding of the keep called Mold, Llewelyn had expected a massive retaliatory
invasion. Henry had been so busy destroying de Burgh, however, that he had not
called up an army. Llewelyn knew that one was summoned now, to gather at
Gloucester on the Assumption of Saint Mary, but what Henry planned to do with
it was very doubtful. The stated purpose of the summons, Llewelyn’s informants
told him, was to attack the vassals of Hubert de Burgh in Ireland. Llewelyn
could not believe this. Not even Henry, much less that clever fox Winchester,
would sail off to Ireland with an army when half the men in the southwest were
openly in rebellion and many barons throughout the rest of the country were on
the brink of following that lead.

Most likely the army was being readied to curb Gilbert
Bassett and his brothers and henchmen. If so, the rest of the baronage might
rise against Henry. Nothing could please Llewelyn better than a long, bloody
civil war in England. It was greatly to his advantage, and he would do whatever
he could to encourage it. However, it was also possible that the army was being
gathered to attack Wales. A war with Llewelyn was one of the devices a clever
minister or king might use to divert animosity from himself.

Thus, Llewelyn had absolutely forbidden his major vassals to
engage in even the smallest raid against English property. In fact, he had
sworn that he would roast alive any man who dared steal a pig, a cow, even a
chicken, and send him to the victim of the theft to replace the animal.

It was easy enough to control the older, propertied men, but
the younger ones, who depended for their livelihood on what they could steal in
raids, were less amenable to reasons of a political nature. The hungriest of
all for loot and glory were in his own court, Llewelyn knew, and the greediest and
most ambitious of those hung around Rhiannon, eying each other hotly and
watching lest one or another be favored. So long as they did that, held by the
lure of the dower that could be expected from Llewelyn and the advantages of a
blood bond with him as well as by Rhiannon’s beauty, they would not form a
raiding band.

Ordinarily Llewelyn preferred that the hungry young men prey
on the border holdings or even raid into England than kill each other. He had
good use for every fighting cock in his court. Just now, however, he would
rather they kill each other over Rhiannon than that they disturb the precarious
balance of politics with England. It was all the more amusing in that none of
those who pursued his daughter had the least chance of success. And that brought
Llewelyn back to wondering what Rhiannon thought she was doing.

By that time Rhiannon herself could not have told him. When
she first came to Aber, she had expected to look around for a day or two,
choose the man who appealed to her most, and couple with him. That was simple
enough in theory; in practice it seemed impossible. There were attractive men
in plenty, and all were sufficiently eager to please her—and all were pleasing
until Rhiannon brought her mind to the final stage of her plan. The truth was
that she had not the slightest inclination to yield her body to any of them.
The inescapable conclusion was that it was not a generalized desire that
tormented her. She had not, as a heifer did, come into season. It was one
single man her body craved.

While Rhiannon wrestled with the new problem this revelation
produced, she continued—because she could think of no way abruptly to terminate
them—the flirtations she had begun. She did, of course, act with greater
coolness, but this only produced still greater difficulties. Now that her mind
was free of the preoccupation of which man to choose, she saw the animosity she
had raised among her suitors. This sent her, filled with remorse, to her
father, but he only laughed heartily and begged her not to leave or turn her
pursuers away just yet.

The explanation of his reasons for this request relieved
Rhiannon’s mind but created a problem. She had intended to write to Simon and
ask him to return. When she thought matters through, however, Rhiannon realized
that the last person she wanted at court just now was Simon. Whether or not he
was in sympathy with her father’s purpose of keeping his wild bucks from
raiding, Simon was not likely to consent to being one suitor in a crowd of
others. Besides, if she showed him favor, all the others might turn on him.
Although in a general way Simon was well liked, it would be a far different
matter to see a suitor from England run off with a Welsh prize even though
Rhiannon had no intention of marrying. The satisfaction of her desire was
reasonable, but she was strongly opposed to submitting her body or soul to the
tether that marriage oaths would impose.

Thus it was with more horror than pleasure that Rhiannon saw
Simon ride into Aber on a fine afternoon in mid-August. Instinct conquered
reason; Rhiannon fled—across the bailey, out the rear postern, down the
precipitous slope that led up to the walls, and into the woods. Like a wild
thing, she cowered behind a tangle of brush until the quiet of the afternoon
wood brought her some calm. Even then, flight seemed the only answer.

To return meant that her cheap device to escape her need for
Simon would be exposed. Shame did not often touch Rhiannon. Fearlessness and
honesty had protected her from the kind of actions that engendered shame. She
had known that ugly emotion only as a result of a certain heedlessness that
sometimes made her careless of the needs and feelings of others. Now that
carelessness plus the fears that Simon had awakened in her had driven her into
behavior she considered shameful.

There was no way to hide what she had done—or was there?
Rhiannon sat up straighter, and two squirrels that had been gathering food
within feet of her, taking her for inanimate because of her stillness,
chattered angrily and sprang for the nearest tree. She could say, truthfully,
that she was following her father’s orders. And add spoken lies to the shame
she felt already? No. It would be better to go secretly, before Simon knew she
was at court.

And not see him? There was a sickening sinking in Rhiannon,
followed by a strange ache. Neither sensation could be real, she knew. Nor
would seeing Simon do her the least good, she told herself bitterly. When he
knew what she had been about, it was highly unlikely he would be willing to
have anything to do with her. That decision did not produce an even greater
depression as it should, perhaps, have done. Rhiannon knew that love prompted
forgiveness. Let Simon hear the worst from others. If he came to her after
that…

In calculating her plans, Rhiannon had not included Math—a
factor that could not, she soon found, be ignored. She had forgotten Math’s
unusual fondness for Simon’s company. When she returned to Aber, warned the two
men who had accompanied her, and packed her belongings, she found Math was
missing. Calling him in the women’s quarters and in the stables, storage huts,
and outdoor areas produced no result.

Rhiannon was surprised. Although Math often ignored her when
she called him at home, he was usually eager to go back to the hall in the hills
and would stay close to her heels or come running when she began to pack. There
was only one place he could be where he would not have heard her—in the great
hall. She could only hope that Simon had left there already, and she peered in
cautiously from a doorway not far from the dais where her father’s chair of
state stood. The sight that met her eyes drew a gasp of combined amazement and
fury and precluded any stealthy retreat from court.

Simon and her father were talking very earnestly in low
voices, Simon sitting on a stool drawn near Llewelyn’s chair. However, Rhiannon
hardly noticed her father or his attitude. What had caused her gasp and the
accompanying emotions was the sight of Math, sitting in Simon’s lap and purring
away as Simon absently stroked his head and gently scratched under his chin.
Escape was no longer possible.

Stormily, Rhiannon went to tell her men she had changed her
mind. They would stay at Aber. Then she stamped out to the women’s hall and
unpacked. Finally, eyes gleaming with defiance, she came to the great hall.
There she met only more frustration. Simon and her father had disappeared.
Math, however, came to her at once, his tail high, purring, looking, to
Rhiannon’s jaundiced eyes, inordinately pleased with himself.

“Traitor!” she exclaimed bitterly. “Is this how you reward
me for all my devoted service to you?”

A low exclamation of fear close by made Rhiannon turn
swiftly. She was about to say it was only a jest, but Mallt uerch Arnallt and
Catrin uerch Pawl, the two ladies who had been nearest, were hurrying away,
doubtless making signs against the evil eye. Now those two would probably
spread the word that she had confirmed herself a witch and Math her familiar.
She wished briefly that she was and that she could bespell their silly tongues
to restrain their chatter, but she had not that kind of power.

At odds with herself and knowing she would probably only
make matters worse by trying to explain or, indeed, speaking to anyone before
she had calmed herself, Rhiannon went out to walk. This time Math followed,
which drew from his mistress several even less favorable remarks on his
character. She returned only when the light started to fail, not actually at
peace with herself but determined to speak the plain truth to Simon and cleanse
thoroughly the wound of shame.

She found that Math was not the only traitor whom she had
unwisely trusted. Simon darted forward as soon as she came in, his eyes
glittering with excitement.

“Your father tells me you have changed your mind,” he said,
seizing her hand and kissing it.

“Changed my mind about what?” Rhiannon countered coldly,
infuriated all over again.

About me
, Simon nearly said, but he swallowed the
impulse, realizing that he had been incredibly gauche. In his eagerness to
commit himself to her immediately and irrevocably, he had said what must be
wounding to the pride of any woman and, worse, made himself sound like a
cocksure fool. What Rhiannon might confide in her father and what Llewelyn
might pass on in a spirit of helpful mischief could not be wantonly exposed.

“About being involved in your father’s political doings,” he
said, eying the gentlemen who were converging on them with an unholy light in
his eyes.

Rhiannon looked over her shoulder and withdrew her hand
hurriedly from Simon’s. He might have thought the glares directed at them were
funny, but she did not. “I am glad to see you again, Sir Simon,” she said with
reserve, “but I am not dressed for an evening in company.”

“You are beautiful in any dress, Lady Rhiannon, even with cockleburs
in your hair instead of pearls,” Simon remarked sententiously. As Rhiannon
wrinkled her nose disdainfully and began to turn away, he continued with
spurious gravity, “I think I like the cockleburs better, in fact. They are less
expensive to gather, which must be a point to consider for a husband who is not
rich.”