Rhiannon (38 page)

As they withdrew from the danger, Rhiannon’s excitement
faded. The glance she had exchanged with Simon had been the last flicker of it.
Now it was over, and she was aware of a sense of loss, of flatness and
depression. Before she realized what she was doing, she began casting about in
her mind for a new adventure. The desire brought another revelation to enforce
the first. One could become addicted to danger, she thought.

Simon in the meantime was shifting impatiently in the
saddle, waiting for the two men who had given up their horses to de Millers and
Chamberlain to get back to them. The slight movement drew Rhiannon’s attention.
She wondered whether Simon was also feeling the letdown that afflicted her. It
was better to make love, she thought suddenly. When that pleasure had passed,
there was peace and contentment.

The two for whom they waited appeared, took the horses held
for them, and the troop moved off. Simon went east instead of west around the
base of Roundway Hill. One reason was that he wished to divorce himself as much
as possible from Bassett’s group. Also, from Marlborough there was a road to
Cirencester and Gloucester where the Severn became fordable. West of
Gloucester, the king’s power was greatly diminished. There were some loyal
barons, but most would look the other way when a fugitive from the king rode
by, and some were outright rebels who would help.

They did not go as far as the town, since Simon did not wish
to approach any inhabited place from the west. Instead, they camped south of
it. This was not entirely safe but was better than riding into a town at this
time of night or riding around it in the dark. That would seem furtive and be
certain to draw notice. As soon as they found a stream, Simon ordered that a
camp be set up and patrols be sent out to warn them of any approaching troop.
Then he went down to the water to wash the greasy soot from his face and hands.
It occurred to him that Rhiannon had been unusually silent during the ride, and
then, vividly, he recalled her expression when he had returned with de Burgh.
Fatigue evaporated under a wave of desire—but would she be willing? And if he
made the advance and she yielded, would she consider that some form of victory?
Did he care?

The answer to the last question clarified everything. The
truth was that Simon did not care. So long as Rhiannon was willing, she could
win every battle; Simon knew he would still win the war. There was only one
danger. Although Rhiannon was sensual and plainly enjoyed lovemaking, she had a
will as strong as tempered steel. She might still refuse him! Simon flicked the
cold drops from fingers and face and hurried back to the camp. He was a fool.
He should have sent the men ahead and taken her while she was still aroused by
danger.

There was no sign of her when he arrived at the camp. Simon
gritted his teeth and hurried toward his tent. If she was already abed, his
problem would be enormously increased. He threw back the tent flap and rushed
in, only to be brought up short by the sight of Rhiannon sitting quietly on a
stool waiting for him.

“What is it?” she asked tensely, jumping to her feet in response
to his precipitous entrance.

“Only my impatience to be with you,” Simon replied.

She put out a hand to him, at the same time beginning to
say, “Simon, I must—”

But she never finished. The extended hand was sufficient
invitation. Simon pulled her close and kissed her, finding himself trembling
with eagerness as if he were a green boy with his first woman. Rhiannon
responded immediately. Simon could feel her press forward against him, and her
mouth opened to draw in his tongue. Yet, even while her desire made her draw
him closer, tightening her arms around him, her head moved slightly as if she
felt she should draw away.

Simon tried to slip a hand between them to untie the neck of
her tunic so that he could kiss her throat and eventually her breasts, but the
moment he relaxed the pressure of his embrace, she freed her mouth.

“I must tell you,” she gasped.

“Not now, for sweet Mary’s sake,” Simon groaned. “Later.
Tell me later.”

He pulled her closer again, and she did not resist, only
whispered in a troubled way, “But Simon—”

“I am afire,” he pleaded. “I do not care.”

He muted her again with kisses, and this time when he eased
his grip to loosen her clothing Rhiannon did not try to speak but slid her
hands down to his buttocks to pull his pelvis tighter against hers. She had
tried three times to warn him that the yielding of her body did not imply any
change in her mind. She would be glad to appease her hunger and his; it was
Simon who had always insisted that the intention of marriage and permanent union
accompany lovemaking. Rhiannon felt a little guilty. She knew she had not tried
very hard to tell him, but she wanted him so much.

As Simon untied her tunic, she slid her hands forward and
fumbled for the knot of his chausses string. One hand touched his swollen
shaft, and Simon gasped. Rhiannon was distracted. When she touched him and felt
his reaction, that stimulated her own pulsing pleasure and she wished to touch
him again. But if she served that desire, she could not undress him, which was
the direct path to even greater joy.

Simon was similarly distracted between two goals. He hated
to make love in a half-clothed scramble. There was something ugly about taking
a woman with her skirts turned up over her face and his own chausses down and
undone, binding his knees or ankles. He wanted to take off Rhiannon’s clothes
and his own and couple decently, cushioned by his cloak and covered by hers.
However, for the first time in many, many years Simon was too eager, too
excited to wait. Rhiannon’s touch had raised his desire to a pitch that was
painful. He also wanted to fling her down and drive into her to still her
aching craving and his own. Torn between desire and desire, he hesitated,
shaking with passion.

“Pendeuic! Penn Emrys!”
Siorl’s voice was nearly a scream,
and he beat on the fabric of the tent so that it vibrated around them.

Simon jumped. He realized that for several minutes he had
been blocking noises he did not want to hear from the camp outside. Still, he
could not bear to release Rhiannon. “What?” he called hoarsely, more for the
sake of clinging to her yielding warmth for another second or two than because
he did not know the answer.

“There are many men, a hundred or more, riding a sweep
pattern. They cannot fail to find us. Do you wish to run, stay, or fight, my
lord?”

There was another brief hesitation. Simon knew what was
right, but it went sorely against his training and the grain of his own
disposition. When he had released her lips, Rhiannon had laid her head against
his breast for a moment. Now she pulled away gently, and he let her go.

“Run,” he answered, and stalked out of the tent. Rhiannon
was already on her knees packing the few things she had taken out of the
traveling baskets. Tears of frustration ran down her cheeks, and she cursed the
oncoming forces with every ill she knew by the old gods and the new. There
would not be another chance like this. Now she would have to tell him before he
took her, see the pain in his eyes, and deal with his gentle but irrevocable
withdrawal. This had been her last chance to touch him and love him. Once back
in Angharad’s Hall, Rhiannon knew she would have to end the relationship
completely. If she did not, she would feel every pain for him a thousand times
when he was not even hurt.

The pain of parting would be terrible, but it would end if
she did not see Simon again. It would be like a twin-trunked tree, riven by
lightning. It took long, but the scar would heal over and the standing tree
would live. If she could not endure now, she would be smitten with worse pain
later, and it would never heal. It would grow worse and worse as her love
deepened and she grew more dependent on it with the years. But she had wanted
him one more time.

For the first time in her life Rhiannon cursed her
womanhood. Many women did so from the day they understood what it meant, but
not Angharad’s descendants. They were proud and free—as Rhiannon had been,
until she had loved Simon.

It was clear as soon as Simon stepped out of the tent that
he had managed to ignore more than a few dim noises. Siorl must have called him
more than once, but the master-at-arms made no comment on his lord’s most
unusual inattention. Siorl had been at Dinas Emrys when Rhiannon sang with the
winds, and Simon’s flushed face and suffused eyes were excuse enough. Siorl was
only glad the witch had let him go in time.

Quite unaware of his man’s conclusions, Simon gave his
complete attention to his duty and was relieved to see that his desire for
Rhiannon had not caused a disaster. In case Simon decided to stay, Siorl had
taken the preliminary steps for fighting or running without disrupting the
overall appearance of the camp.

Final orders were given now and fires were killed with
earth, the readied pack animals were loaded, and the tent was rolled up around
Rhiannon as she finished strapping the baskets. Then the men came in and took
apart cots, table, and stools, and rolled up the bedding. By the time
Rhiannon’s mare was brought to her, there was no sign of the tent, aside from a
flattened section of grass and weeds that would soon spring upright again.
Similarly, there was no sign of past passion or tears on Rhiannon’s face.

Simon’s heart sank as he looked at her. He knew now, without
words, what she had been trying to tell him—that she had been willing, but it
would be the last time. He tried to think of something to say, something that
would change her mind or at least make her suspend her decision before the
intention became fixed. But there was no time to think. The need to escape precluded
argument. All he managed to say was her name.

“Do not,” she whispered. “Let me be. I will die, Simon. I
will die.”

There was a thin, tense quality to her voice that was more
frightening, more eloquent of the disaster she skirted, than screams and tears.
Simon surveyed his men again, saw they were ready, and gave the order to ride
forward. He could do nothing now about Rhiannon. He told himself that the hills
would cure her, that when she was safe and could run free again, she would
accept him. But there was a sickness of disbelief in him. It was not fear of
being captured or any other fear that had driven Rhiannon to reject him
completely. It was something to do with him, and her eagerness for lovemaking
had been the final, deciding factor in her mind, he feared.

All personal emotions were dulled as Simon led the troop
out. They did not go too quickly at first. The fore-riders of the searching
groups were not very far away, and it would never do for them to hear a large
group thundering off. As soon as a rise of land behind them formed a baffle,
they picked up speed as well as they could in the dark, hoping that the slow
sweep behind them would give them a good lead. They gained their end and did
slip away from that searching troop, but it did little good. It seemed as if
every keep loyal to the king in the area had been warned and had sent out its
garrison to search. Simon could only curse the unfortunate circumstance that
Hubert de Burgh’s own lands and closest allies were east, in Kent, whereas his
greatest possibility of safety lay west in South Wales. Thus, the king’s forces
were searching with equal assiduousness in
every
direction.

On foot and without the baggage, Simon, Rhiannon, and the
men could have scattered and disappeared into the dark. But Simon was not
willing to lose a troop of horses, including his own fine destrier by which it
might be possible to identify him. In addition, there was all the clothing and
jewelry, his camping equipment, the food, and other supplies that would have to
be abandoned. If Simon had to, he would rather identify himself and give one of
the excuses he had been concocting for wandering around in the middle of the
night; he would even rather fight than lose his horses and goods.

In fact, Simon’s temper was disintegrating so rapidly under
the mingled effects of anxiety, distaste for running away, and sexual
frustration that he would have loved to have someone pick a fight with him.
Unfortunately, every force his scouts noted was stronger than his own. This
meant attacking from ambush, which was really unjustifiable, or taking too
great a chance of defeat. Simon’s light-armed bowmen were not really the equals
of a superior, heavy-armed force in open combat.

So they dodged and zigzagged from one wooded area to
another, barely avoiding some troops, running hard ahead of others. Simon tried
to keep them headed north, but they were driven east several times. In the end,
this was an advantage because they stumbled upon a main road, which Simon
figured had to be the Winchester-Cirencester road. Here, Simon decided to stop
and outface any searching troop if necessary. It was nearly dawn anyway. Even
at first light it would be reasonable enough to be traveling along a road—so
long as no one noticed the blown and lathered horses.

That was the deciding factor. The horses had to be rested in
any case, and it would be best to rest them before fording the river Kennet.
Simon did not know any ford except the one at Marlborough. Since the ford would
surely be guarded, they could neither cross it at this time of night nor take
the chance that the condition of the horses would be noticed. The only reason
not to stop was that Simon had come to the conclusion that he did not want to
talk to Rhiannon for a while. The reason was scarcely tactically sound, and
Simon was forced to put it aside.

They moved sufficiently off the road to be screened by trees
and brush, watered the horses at a small streamlet, and fed them. No scouts
were sent out. Simon had decided to run no farther. He did not think there
would be any searches on or near the road. It led south to a town loyal to the
king and north only to the ford at Marlborough. In either direction there was
no escape for any fugitive, so there was no real point in patrolling the road.
Simon’s expectation was correct. No one moved on the road until the ordinary
traffic of the morning began.

When he had set the watch, Simon came back with some
reluctance to where Rhiannon lay. It had occurred to him, somewhere in the
muddled night, that if she did not say aloud that she did not wish to see or
speak to him again after this journey was over, there would be a greater chance
she would relent. Commitments spoken aloud are very hard to forget. Again Simon
wondered whether she had thought of the bitter challenge about whose hunger
would triumph. He thought it was a draw, but Rhiannon might consider herself
shamed. She had first held out her hand. But he had kissed her… Simon’s eyes
closed, and he swallowed.

Mercifully Rhiannon was already asleep—or pretending to be
asleep. Simon lay down softly a few feet away. It was cold, but he was
accustomed to it. He noticed that Rhiannon, practiced camper that she was, had
provided herself with blankets from the horses and would be warm enough. It was
marvelous to be with a woman for whom you never had to feel concerned. She
could go anywhere. She needed no watching or tending. Then grief choked him.
What had he done that had changed her mind? Yet she had said it was not his
fault. Had the threat of confinement somehow connected itself in her mind with
marriage?

If so, it was all the more important to be patient and not
to press her. When she was calmed by safety and soothed by freedom, he could
approach her again with promises never to take her from Wales, even from her own
home, unless she desired to go. He must do everything in his power to keep her
from speaking to him about the future. There were reasons enough now to make
haste to Llewelyn’s court. He could leave her there; her father would send her
on to Angharad’s Hall with a small escort. Simon intended to ask permission to
return to Richard, and he thought Llewelyn would give it, even if he decided to
pretend he did not know what his vassal was doing. The tension that had
prevented Simon from sleeping eased; he smiled slightly, and his eyes closed.
Women were very tender toward a man away at war.

Simon allowed his men to rest until midmorning. Then, when
the road was empty for a time, they came out into it and rode openly to
Marlborough. Although Simon was questioned minutely and each man in his troop
was carefully scrutinized—especially the wrists and ankles, for all three
prisoners had been manacled and would have sores there that were impossible to
hide—no other problem arose.

Rhiannon asked no questions about their sudden haste. Simon
could not help wondering whether this was because she understood that Llewelyn
must have news of de Burgh’s escape at once, or whether she was so eager to be
free of him that she did not care to ask why. One moment Simon was in a pit of
despair, then a quick glance or a turn of her head would give him hope.
Perhaps, he told himself, Rhiannon was eager to be at home so that she could
think before she said more than she meant to say.

The truth was that Rhiannon did not know either. One moment
she wished passionately to be away from the dark, beautiful face and lithe body
that aroused her; the next she had all she could do to keep from weeping at the
thought that she would never see him again. She was sufficiently absorbed in
her own troubles not to realize that Simon was avoiding her deliberately. He
seemed busy with his men and the details of traveling, and when it would have
seemed unnatural not to speak, she was not surprised that he concentrated on
the political situation and how the freeing of de Burgh would affect it.

When they crossed into Wales, Simon began to ask for news of
Prince Llewelyn. They learned, to Simon’s relief, that he was at Ruthin and
made for the keep with all speed, arriving very late, long after the gates had
been locked for the night. However, the guards opened readily enough when Simon
and Rhiannon had been recognized. Rhiannon went to the women’s quarters at
once, and Simon breathed a sigh of relief. If he caught Llewelyn at first
waking, he could be away before she came down to break her fast.

Late as it was, Simon spent some time composing a letter to
be given to her, reaffirming his faith and his love. He would come to
Angharad’s Hall when he could, he promised. He could not tell her where he
would be, he added cleverly, because he did not know. He thought her father
would want him to act as liaison between him and Richard, and the Earl of
Pembroke would doubtless be traveling from one stronghold to another to make
all ready for war.

This letter was handed to Llewelyn to use as he thought fit.
Simon had concealed nothing from Rhiannon’s father, who knew he was hearing the
story from Simon’s point of view—but his sympathy was with Simon in any case.
Prince Llewelyn had long thought Rhiannon quite mad. As long as this madness
did not interfere with his plans, he was willing for her to go her own way. Now
that he had found a use for her, however, he was determined that she would
serve his purpose. To act as intermediary between himself and King Henry,
Rhiannon had to be married to Simon, and married she would be by hook or by
crook.

Previously there had been some doubt, but now Llewelyn was
sure there would be need for an intermediary. He foresaw that there would be
handsome profits in the war that was inevitable between Pembroke and the king.
If he allied with Pembroke, there was no way a mercenary army, totally
unprepared for the kind of warfare that would be waged, could win. And a
mercenary army meant pay chests as well as the valuable supplies that any army
carried. Llewelyn grinned wolfishly. If they were beaten badly enough, the
whole western border would be undefended. And Chester was dead. Llewelyn licked
his lips. There was no longer any oath of friendship to hold him back. The
cities would be open to looting—not Chester itself; Llewelyn’s spirit shrank
from that, but Shrewsbury was just as good. Yes, they would take Shrewsbury.

A double profit would be gleaned from that. The taking of
Shrewsbury would surely shock even King Henry and bring home to him the stupidity
of what he was doing. Yes, but after that an intermediary would be needed. For
a long time, Henry would be too furious to talk reason with any man. But a
woman, in no way associated with anything military, truly grieved over the
animosity between her father and the king who appreciated her art—yes. It would
be of particular value that the songbird the king admired so much had been
frightened away from Henry by the threats of the Bishop of Winchester. Llewelyn
began to grin again as he thought the story through. Yes, Rhiannon would have
returned in spite of her fears to plead for peace between her favorite listener
and her father. How touching!

But first there was the question of getting her married. His
eyes narrowed and he tapped Simon’s letter, which he had read before it was
sealed in his presence, against his fingertips. He could not say too much.
There was no forcing Rhiannon. She would run away, even kill herself if the
pressure became too extreme. But there were ways to make a person apply pressure
to herself. Llewelyn beckoned a maidservant and told her to carry Simon’s
letter to Rhiannon. As he expected, it brought her down to the hall a few
minutes later, so soon that her hair was uncombed and her gown undone.

Seeing her father, she cried, “Is he gone?”

“Some hours,” Llewelyn replied gravely. “Does it matter? I
had proposals to make to Pembroke, and Simon was fittest to make them.”

“Where is Pembroke? I will send a messenger.”

“As to where Pembroke is—I have no idea. Simon will have to
track him by rumor and possibly follow him from place to place. Just now the
earl’s friends are peculiarly unwilling to speak freely of his whereabouts,
even to me. And why, Rhiannon? What is of such importance to say to Simon that
you must send a man after him?”

“I do not wish him to come to Angharad’s Hall,” Rhiannon
said bleakly.