Rhiannon (26 page)

“There will be no mockery,” Alinor said huskily. “The women
of the Court may be cruel out of envy, Rhiannon, but no one will laugh.”

The dress Rhiannon chose that night was black, but so
interwoven with threads of gold and silver and with sparkling stones that it
was bright as a rainbow. It was not, like modern gowns, draped in graceful
folds, but laced tight under the breasts and down the waist to the hips, where
it widened greatly. The undertunic was a blue so pale it looked like silver
under the wide black sleeves and where it showed at the throat. More stones
decked the wrists and neckline of the tunic—polished onyx, yellow citrine,
golden topaz, pale green chrysoprase, cloudy chrysolite, aquamarine, amethyst,
ruby spinel, and carnelian. They were set in an intricate pattern that caught
the eye so well that it was an effort to look away.

Then Rhiannon hung her ears with real precious stones,
diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires. Last of all, she set a gold band around her
forehead to keep her hair out of her face. From this band hung thin chains of
gold fastened together into an open meshwork by horizontal chains, and fixed along
the vertical strands were more jewels. They slipped in and out of Rhiannon’s
heavy mass of raven hair, twinkling.

“Did Llewelyn empty his treasury for you?” Alinor whispered,
stunned.

Rhiannon laughed. To her the things were pretty and an aid
in her art. She had no sense of their real value. “No,” she replied, “these are
mine. Kicva gave them to me. Her father, Gwydyon, brought them home from some
far place. When he was young and desired Angharad, he traveled very widely
seeking things that would please her. The more fool he. He won her with his own
power, by singing. He was a great bard—the last, I think.”

“If he won what you wear by singing, he was indeed a great
bard,” Alinor remarked cynically.

She was never ungenerous, but minstrels were paid in copper
or very small silver in Roselynde, not in twenty yards of gold and gems. Later,
however, she wondered whether her doubts had been just. Rhiannon struck her
harp and sang to them a fantastic tale of grief and love and power. Alinor
thought that, in the past, when men feared magic more than they did in this
age, gifts of great value might have been given to propitiate one who could
raise such images.

There was no praise when Rhiannon stopped singing. All were
struck mute—even Simon, who was accustomed to her art. In Roselynde, where the
practical and possible was a fine art, the magical and impossible had more
power to shock, to stir deep-buried memories both ugly and beautiful, than in
Llewelyn’s Court or at Dinas Emrys. But Rhiannon did not mistake the silence
for indifference. She lowered her head and folded her hands in her lap over her
harp, and waited.

Little by little, movement came back to the tense figures.
Alinor’s breath sighed out, Joanna’s drew in deeply, Gilliane lifted a hand to
wipe away the tears that had run unheeded down her cheeks. Ian smiled. He was
the least affected; he had heard Gwydyon himself sing in Llewelyn’s Court,
although the bard was very old then. Adam moved restlessly. If she had not been
Simon’s betrothed, he would have called Rhiannon a witch. Geoffrey was still
transfixed; he was no mean performer himself, but Rhiannon’s singing was far
beyond his experience.

Simon turned to him as the most knowledgeable in the art.
“She is a fine singer, is she not?”

Geoffrey started, as if he had been asleep, and cleared his
throat. “She is beyond fine. Her singing is an ensorcelment.” He smiled. “You
do not need to worry about fixing Henry’s attention or winning his heart. The
king loves such things greatly. I only hope that Winchester does not decide to
strike back by crying, ‘
Witch
.’”

The whole party rode north the next morning, and Rhiannon
felt more and more at home. All the ladies bestrode their own mounts as she
did. None, not even Alinor, who was old, traveled in a covered cart or sat
pillion behind a man. Perhaps Joanna looked anxiously at her mother from time
to time, but Rhiannon thought that was because of Joanna’s nature rather than
any real weakness in Alinor. They stayed at Kingsclere that night, and made
much of old Sir Henry, who lost ten years off his age in his pride and
pleasure.

On the day after, they came to Oxford. Geoffrey had a house
there, the gift of the king, who often stayed at Oxford keep and wished his
cousin to be near him. Henry would have preferred that Geoffrey remain
permanently in his bachelor Court, but he soon learned that Geoffrey would stay
nowhere long without his enchanting wife. Henry would gladly have made room for
Joanna also, but there was no female side to Henry’s Court. His mother had
remarried in France and he had no wife as yet, although negotiations were under
way. A house of his own for Geoffrey was the best solution.

Ian and Alinor had rented another house nearby, and it was
easy enough to divide the party so that all would have comfortable
accommodation. Because the servants had changed teams and traveled most of both
nights, the baggage carts had almost kept pace with the riders. The men left
the women to wait for the servants, the furniture, linens, and cooking vessels,
and went off to see what had happened since they last had news.

Geoffrey went directly to the king, and Ian accompanied him.
Adam and Simon asked around for Richard of Cornwall. They were not well pleased
when they heard he was at his seat in Wallingford about fifteen miles away.
Almost certainly that meant there had been another quarrel between the
brothers, which boded ill for the truce with Pembroke. However, guessing was
useless. It
was
possible that Richard was simply taking care of the
business of his property. It would be necessary to ride out to see him.

It did not take Geoffrey and Ian much longer to realize that
all was not well. Simon’s betrothal was a most convenient excuse to seek an
audience with the king. The audience was granted—but only after they had stated
their reason. This was a bad shock. Usually the king would welcome either of
them without reservation, frequently coming out himself to escort them. In
response to the rebuff, Geoffrey and Ian exchanged a single, significant
glance. Although neither permitted his expression to change, both were aware of
sinking hearts. Geoffrey was one of the guarantors that Usk would be returned
to Pembroke on September twenty-third. If Henry did not wish to speak to
Geoffrey, it was probably because he was afraid Geoffrey would ask him to
confirm that promise.

Since both knew that nothing would be gained by raising the
question directly, they confined themselves to the subject of Simon’s
betrothal, praising the bride-to-be, and requesting permission to present her.
Their forbearance had the excellent result of gaining Ian a quit-claim for his
son’s marriage without the customary fine for marrying whomsoever he chose.
Nonetheless, Ian would gladly have paid the fine to escape seeing how Henry’s
eyes shifted when Geoffrey uttered a mild, neutral hope that they would soon
see the Earl of Pembroke at Court.

They rode home with heavy hearts to discover that the
womenfolk were equally uneasy. Without moving more than the few hundred yards
between houses, all were aware of even worse news than their men had uncovered.

With the instinct of a bee attracted to honey, Walter de
Clare had homed in on Sybelle’s presence. He did not approach her
directly—their last meeting was still too vivid in his mind—but he had spoken
to Joanna. Her exclamation of distress had brought Gilliane and Sybelle. In
view of the coming trouble, the past disagreement between Walter and Sybelle
had been interred without even a hint of a funeral service. Naturally, Joanna
brought her package of worry to Alinor, so Rhiannon had also heard.

Moreover, Alinor and Rhiannon had a message from Simon that
he and Adam were riding to Wallingford to see Cornwall. The fact that this was
necessary only seemed to confirm Walter’s news. Henry would not give up Usk and
intended, if Richard Marshal came to demand it in person, to seize him as a
rebel and imprison him. This, of course, was Walter’s dramatic version of the
rumors that seethed and surged around Oxford. This was worse than Ian and
Geoffrey had expected; they had assumed that Henry would hold out pardon for
the ceding of Usk and future good behavior.

The worst was confirmed when Simon and Adam returned from
Wallingford the next day. Cornwall had received them gladly, delighted with two
new pairs of sympathetic ears into which to pour his rage and his frustration.
He would have nothing more to do with his brother, he snarled, nothing. How
could a man of honor live in such a situation, he asked. He was caught between
the oath he had sworn to Henry—the blood bond that made the oath even more
sacred—and the dishonor he felt at what Henry intended to do. He had not
specifically been a party to the truce, but he could not bear to see his
brother dishonor himself. Richard was so shamed, so furious, that if he came
into Henry’s presence again, he would put his hands around the king’s neck and
strangle him.

Even Simon and Adam blanched, although they knew it was
temper rather than intention they heard. Everyone would have been more than
happy to exchange Henry for Richard, but not with his brother’s blood on his
hands and conscience. There were many in the kingdom who prayed daily for the
king’s death from any well-known cause—except fratricide.

All in all, the visit had a good effect. Richard talked
himself out, regained his temper, and asked his guests to spend the night. They
agreed readily, even more eager to hear what Cornwall had to say when he was
calm than when he was angry. A messenger rode off to Oxford to reassure the
family that Simon and Adam were guests and would return to dinner the next day.
Over breakfast, his temper spent, Richard discussed the matter more coherently,
but, unfortunately, there was nothing new he could say. He had screamed at his
brother and had pleaded on his knees, and both approaches had been futile.
There was nothing else he could do to assist Pembroke actively. All he could do
was to refuse absolutely to take part in any future action against him—no
matter what Pembroke did.

“I am shamed,” he said, his dark eyes glowing with resentment,
“for Richard Marshal is a good man, and what he desires is just. But I cannot
raise my hand against my brother—I cannot!”

“No, indeed!” Simon and Adam said in unison.

The political implications were awful enough, but both had
actually responded emotionally, unconsciously drawing closer together so that
they touched. The foundation of life was that a man could trust his own blood
kin and that the bond of blood outweighed even the oath of fealty. It did not
matter whether you loved or hated your blood kin. The men of Roselynde were
fortunate in being tied in love as well as in blood, but love was not essential
and hatred usually had no effect on loosening the tie.

Of course, there had always been those unnatural creatures
who violated the bond of blood. The Plantagenets were infamous for it, the sons
turning on the father and then, when they had destroyed him, attacking each
other. The horrible example of a land torn constantly with war, of betrayals
and counterbetrayals, of honest men driven to extremity by the need to choose
between two oaths of fealty rose before Adam’s and Simon’s eyes. They, too,
might pray for Henry’s early demise, but neither would encourage Richard to use
force to curb his brother.

“Winchester must be mad!” Ian exclaimed when he heard Adam’s
recounting of what had happened at Wallingford. “Geoffrey is one of the
sureties for Pembroke’s freedom and the return of Usk.”

“Winchester is not mad,” Alinor said, “just desperate. He is
no fool. He knows how Henry’s nature works. He intends, I think, to show the
king he is his only friend, that all others are faithless. If Geoffrey, his own
cousin, sides with the ‘rebel’ Pembroke, Winchester can say this proves that no
man is trustworthy and Henry must rule alone.”

Geoffrey sat still and silent, his quick mind momentarily
frozen by this dilemma. Joanna was white as milk. Their sons were in the king’s
service, close under his hand. If Geoffrey fulfilled his oath to Pembroke, what
would happen to the boys? Normally Henry was soft to them to a fault, and it
was true that he probably could not bring himself to harm them, no matter how
furious he was with their father. However, de Burgh had convinced Henry to put
Cornwall’s stepson, the child Earl of Gloucester, into his care rather than
leave him with his mother as Cornwall’s ward. Could Winchester convince Henry
to give him Geoffrey’s sons?

“Now, wait,” Simon said, looking at his sister’s blanched
face, “there is a way, easy enough. I can go to Richard and tell him what is
planned. He need only go to Usk and knock on the gates on September
twenty-third. If the keep is not yielded, the truce will have been broken and
he will not need to come to the conference. Then he can be in no danger of
imprisonment.”

“He would have the right to call upon me to help him recover
Usk,” Geoffrey pointed out, but he no longer looked like a graven image. There
was life in his eyes, and Joanna’s color began to come back.

“He would not do that, even if he needed your help, and I
happen to know he will not need it. No, do not look so surprised. Richard
himself knows nothing about this little device. It was the doing of the
castellan of Usk, who doubtless did not wish to face the danger of losing his
position permanently—and I could not see that there was any dishonor in it.” He
told them briefly about the castelIan’s son and the men-at-arms still in Usk.

They were still laughing about this clever initiative and
wondering how the castellan would explain what he had done to the very upright
Richard when Walter came in. While the men recapitulated the conversation for
his benefit, the women saw to the setting up of tables for dinner. Walter
joined them with no more than a brief glance at Sybelle. She did not invite
him, but she did not repulse him either, and he sat down, very much a part of
the family.

When he had heard them out, he said, “You cannot go, Simon.
You must take this opportunity to present Lady Rhiannon to the king. It would
look too strange for Lord Geoffrey and Lord Ian to have craved such an audience
and then for you not to bring her, even if there is no need for her services
now, since Henry cannot plan to attack Wales. By the time this is over, any and
all intermediaries will be welcome. I will go to Pembroke.”

“Walter is right,” Geoffrey stated, thinking with his usual
clarity now that he had found his balance. “I will write the entire tale, and
Walter will carry it to Richard. There will be no doubt in Richard’s mind if
the warning comes from me. Moreover, it is my right and duty as one of the
guarantors of the king’s action.”

“Your right and duty, true,” Ian warned, “but do not cut off
your nose to spite
our
faces. You are our best lead to the king, If he
hears of this…”

“Why should he?” Walter asked. “I will not speak of it, nor
will anyone here. Pembroke will not, either.”

“Just a minute,” Adam said. “As soon as Pembroke takes back
Usk, Henry will call a levy and begin the war anew.”

“Yes, and at that time I will withdraw, as will we all. I do
not think there will be many who support the king this time.” Geoffrey paused,
then his eyes narrowed. “May I be damned for a fool!”

“I have never known you to be a fool,” Gilliane gasped, “and
if you are thinking what has suddenly come into
my
mind—”

“Apurpose!” Sybelle’s young voice was hard, and her face had
set into lines that made Walter de Clare’s eyes bulge. “Winchester
intended
to bring the barons to refuse their service.”

“Child,” Ian reproved, “you do not understand. There is
sense in forcing the barons to obey, regardless of their desire, but—”

“No, beloved,” Alinor interrupted, looking at Sybelle.
Alinor’s eyes glowed momentarily with satisfaction. Sybelle, this golden
daughter of Joanna’s, would be a worthy Lady of Roselynde when it came her
time. “Sybelle has seen the truth.”

“But there is no sense in it,” Adam protested.

“Yes, there is,” Gilliane insisted, the steel ringing clear
in the velvet voice. “Listen to this case. All the barons will sit still,
glowering but doing nothing since their oaths prevent them from attacking the
king unless he attacks them first. Yet, because he has broken his oath to
Pembroke, very few will come to his call, all saying the king broke the truce
and has no right to their service. But Winchester has long prepared for this.
The country is full of mercenary troops, and more come every day.”

Geoffrey nodded agreement. “Yes, Ian, I thought like you at
first, that Winchester’s purpose was to humble the barons into submission. I
fear it is worse. He intends to destroy us utterly. If Pembroke can be beaten
by the mercenary troops alone, it will be the first note of the mort for us
all. He is the strongest. The heart will go out of many and they will submit.
The king will then be maneuvered into picking a quarrel with another strong
baron. When he is beaten, only fewer and weaker men will remain.”

“I see it too,” Joanna hissed furiously. “But the king will
not call a levy. He will ask, instead, for scutage, and out of this he will pay
his mercenaries.”

“And they will have no land, no interest in this realm,”
Alinor said. “They will do as the king orders without thought for what is best
for the people.” Alinor’s voice was like a knell of doom. She had cared for the
land and the people on it so long and so fiercely that she was like a tree with
deep, wide-spreading roots buried in the soil of Roselynde.