Rhiannon (39 page)

“And the letter says he will come?” Llewelyn asked, to
establish the untrue fact that he had not read it.

Rhiannon nodded. Llewelyn looked at her, waiting for her to
say something, but she did not speak.

“I saw that Simon was not happy,” he continued. “How has he
offended you, Rhiannon? Were his mother and sisters unkind?”

“No. I was welcomed most warmly.” Her voice dropped. “They
will be disappointed that we do not marry.”

“Do you not? Why not?”

“I cannot.” Rhiannon stared glassily at nothing.

“I guessed as much from Simon’s face, although he would say
nothing.” Simon might tell only the truth, but Llewelyn was not in the least
averse to a big, thumping lie in a good cause. “It is not sufficient to say
‘cannot’, Rhiannon. I ask again, how has Simon offended you?”

“Not at all,” Rhiannon cried, grasping her hair and holding
on as if it were a rope and she dangling from a cliff. “It is nothing to do
with Simon.”

“You have found him unlovable? He no longer attracts you?”

“No…Father…I love him too much.” Llewelyn reached out and
drew Rhiannon to him and put his arm around her. She never called him Father.
The word was a cry for help. For an instant Llewelyn’s resolution wavered, then
firmed even harder. Silly chit, it was the best thing for her, and she simply
did not know it. She had come too late to desire and was frightened by it—or
thought it would restrict her freedom. So it would. And about time, too!

“That is unreasonable, Daughter,” he said gravely. He was
about to say that if she knew she could never learn to love the man, a woman
might resist marriage, but the other way around was ridiculous. However,
Rhiannon cut him off.

“It is not unreasonable,” she rejoined hotly, pulling away,
and forthwith described her terror and her pain, ending, “He will be hurt for a
little time and then he will find another woman to assuage his pain and—and to
take my place.” Her voice stumbled a little over those last words.

Llewelyn had to hide a smile, but he only said, rather
flatly, “I do not think so. I knew Simon’s father when we were both barely men.
I was seventeen and Ian the same age. He was in love with Lady Alinor then—I
heard enough about her to choke a horse. She married his lord and best friend,
Sir Simon Lemagne. Ian never touched her nor even looked at her—in the sense of
being a woman—but he loved her still. Oh, there were other women to warm his
bed, but not one warmed his heart and he never married until Simon Lemagne
died. Then he took her for whom he had longed for—what? Near twenty years, it
had been.”

Rhiannon had stepped away and was staring at him with wide
eyes. She had accepted the fact that Simon would be faithful to her if he
became her husband because he had chosen, as Sybelle said, out of knowledge and
not out of ignorance. It had never occurred to her that he might have told the
truth when he averred he would be faithful whether or not she accepted him. Yet
his father had done just that, and without any hope of satisfaction for his
love from the beginning.

“You are not by nature cruel, Rhiannon,” Llewelyn said into
the silence that fell after his last words. “Perhaps you have not looked at the
matter from both sides. Consider whether to ease your own fears it is right to
inflict a life of loneliness and childlessness and sadness on a man who loves
you. His constant nature is not by his will or sheer stubbornness but something
with which he was born.”

“Then I must be the sacrifice,” Rhiannon exclaimed bitterly.

“Only you can judge that. If it is truly a sacrifice—a
laying down of your life—then perhaps Simon, who will live because he has
duties and obligations that he cannot slough off, must live with his endless
longing.” He reached out and pulled her close again. “My love, there is time
enough for you to consider these things peacefully and at leisure. Pembroke
will surely fight now, and Simon will be with him. He will be too busy and too
tired to think of women.” He smiled. “Go and make your dress decent, Daughter,
and then come back and tell me how you fared at Henry’s court.”

He had heard that from Simon, too, but pretended he had not
and listened eagerly to Rhiannon’s version. That both tales were so nearly
identical was a good sign for the future. Inexperienced as she was, she had
learned more than he had expected. Yes, indeed, Rhiannon would be
very
useful to him once she was Simon’s wife. Nonetheless, he did not mention that
subject again, and when Rhiannon asked if she could go back to Angharad’s Hall
he agreed readily, admitting that he would be busy gathering his men for a
proposed campaign in conjunction with the Earl of Pembroke’s forces.

From the corner of his sly eyes, Llewelyn noted that his
daughter had become paler. Since he was sure her fear was not for his sake, he
rightly assumed she had followed his statement to its logical conclusion. Simon
would very soon be physically at war whether he remained with Pembroke or came
back to Llewelyn.

Rhiannon left the next morning carrying the burden of that
knowledge and the understanding that she might be condemning Simon to great and
lasting unhappiness. A less subtle man might have tried to conceal the fact
that Simon would be fighting, in the hope that Rhiannon would fear for him
less, feel less pain, and be more inclined to marry. Llewelyn knew better. Let
the fear peak now.

Perhaps Kicva would see it and soothe her daughter, although
Llewelyn was never sure of what Kicva would do or say. Even if she chose to
ignore Rhiannon’s distress, no emotion can long remain at fever pitch. In a few
months the fighting would probably be over, at least during the worst months of
winter. Simon would go to Rhiannon as he had promised. By then the pain would
have become dulled by long familiarity, whereas the joy and lust aroused by
seeing him again would be fresh and new. In any case, Kicva would know what to
do if Rhiannon changed her mind, whatever the cause. The escort who went with
Rhiannon carried a letter to be given to Kicva in secret.

The weather was unusually benign as Rhiannon traveled home,
as if the countryside had set out to make her welcome. The days were warm, the
nights crisp and just cold enough to make a fire a true pleasure. The hills
were breathtakingly beautiful, each tree flaming or glowing in gold, orange,
red, or maroon. A multicolored carpet of shifting patterns, all lovely, padded
the roads and the pathways through the forests. Rhiannon was too sensitive to
be unaware, but the awareness only caused her more pain, for she saw the beauty
and could take no joy in it. Worse, the nearer she came to home, where she
expected to find peace, the stronger grew her compulsion to turn about and
hurry back. If she were with Llewelyn, at least she would hear news of Simon.

The impulse was so imperative that she would have yielded if
she had not known she would be unwelcome. Llewelyn did not carry his womenfolk
around with him when he was going to or preparing for war. If she went back, he
would promptly send her home again. She cursed and wept, and when she arrived
at Angharad’s Hall she barely greeted her mother before she ran out on the
hills. But even this last comfort failed her, and when she tried to call some
wolf cubs to her, they retreated into their den.

Rhiannon called herself a fool for that. She knew she could
not “call” when she was angry or hurt, and the hills could give no comfort when
each favorite spot reflected an image of Simon. There could be no quick cure,
she admitted, having known it all along. She would have to endure from day to
day, not even aware of the healing, until one day she would be quite well. It
would be easy to know, she thought, as she plodded wearily back to the hall.
When she could think of Simon with the same calm pleasure she felt on thinking
of Llewelyn, she would be cured of love.

Simon’s troop was not well pleased when they were ordered
out of Ruthin before they had caught up on their sleep or had eaten a decent
meal. Simon, however, was eager to be on the move, to be doing something that
would dull both his hopes and his fears. Llewelyn had increased both by his
reception of Simon’s report. There was no doubt of his pleasure over the
political news. He had unlooped a heavy gold chain from his neck and placed it
around Simon’s.

The prince had been somewhat less forthcoming on Simon’s
description of his personal problem, that instead of leaning more toward
marriage, Rhiannon had barely been prevented from formally breaking the
betrothal. Llewelyn had listened without comment, but his eyes and his lips
narrowed. Simon knew that Llewelyn favored the marriage, especially after
hearing that Rhiannon had made so strong an impression on Henry. Therefore,
Simon assumed that Llewelyn’s expression of determination meant he intended to
see that the marriage took place.

In a sense, that gave Simon confidence. He could not
remember anything Llewelyn undertook that he did not eventually achieve.
Rhiannon had to marry Simon reasonably soon, however, or Llewelyn’s purpose of
using her as an emissary could not be fulfilled. What increased Simon’s fears
was that Rhiannon’s father might push her too hard and she would be driven to
some desperate action.

Simon found Richard Marshal at Usk by the twenty-sixth of
October and was welcomed warmly both for himself and for the news he brought.
On the thirtieth, Gilbert Bassett appeared with Hubert de Burgh. Surprisingly,
the Earl of Kent was not at all desirous of being revenged or of unseating the
king, nor did he desire any part of his power be restored. He wished, he said,
only to be permitted to live in peace on the diminished estates still permitted
to him. He was reluctant to engage in any action against Henry, but when
pressed gave his opinion that war could not be avoided. He would not approve a
treaty with Llewelyn, despite his gratitude to Simon, although Richard’s own
good sense and his other advisers insisted that such an alliance was a
necessity. Simon did not fail to remind them of the benefits that had come from
Chester’s long friendship with the Lord of Gwynedd. There had been peace on the
border for many years, Simon pointed out.

This caused a burst of merriment. “What peace?” Richard
asked sarcastically. “Those Welsh thieves come out every summer and autumn like
a plague of locusts and mice.”

“That is nothing,” Simon protested, laughing, “only a little
playful raiding. The Welsh are poor. That is not war.”

His point was acknowledged, and it was soon agreed that
Richard and a few others would meet with Llewelyn at the Welsh leader’s
stronghold at Builth.

“Circumstances being what they are,” Richard said bleakly, “I
will be in less danger in Llewelyn’s keep than in one of my own.”

With great rejoicing, Simon sent word of this decision to
Builth, as instructed. Either Llewelyn would be there, or word would be sent on
to him. His overt mission accomplished, Simon lingered at Usk, greeting old
friends and arguing war and politics with them. He had nothing else to do,
since his compliment of men was already with him and he did not dare go near
Rhiannon. Besides, Llewelyn had suggested Simon should stay if he was welcome.
He had suspected that there was still a possibility of Henry’s making new truce
proposals to which Richard, ever hopeful of peace with his overlord, might
agree.

Simon was very willing. Richard found him useful, and the
duties and male company kept him occupied. He had a good deal to suffer from
his young friends, who could not understand his sudden and unnatural chastity,
but he found that the jesting at his expense honed his pride and made it easier
to resist his physical urges. What was most painful to him was the kindly
weather, which prevailed over South as well as North Wales. He constantly saw
Rhiannon running the hills like a wild doe and remembered the joy of being her
stag.

However, Simon was wrong in imagining Rhiannon tasting this
free joy. After the first abortive attempt to do just that, she did not go out
to play and dream in the usual way. She busied herself with practical
matters—the end of the harvest and the work of storing the hall against the
lean months of winter. She practiced her music and made a round of the
far-flung dwellings to treat the sick, both man and beast. Yet each day her
longing for Simon grew rather than diminished, and her fear and pain increased.
There was something else that frightened her even more. Math was avoiding her.

She could not understand that, but she was afraid even to
think about it. Instead, she wondered why time was not performing its usual
service of healing her wounds. At last she realized that her increasing fear
for Simon was a result of uncertainty. It was far worse, she decided, not to
know what was going on than to know the hour and day of a battle. This way she
felt a death stroke every minute when, in truth, it was far more likely that
Simon was talking and laughing with his friends or hunting or drinking or
playing some game.

When the realization came upon her, Rhiannon and Kicva were
sitting beside the fire, Kicva spinning and Rhiannon grinding an aromatic herb
in a mortar held in her lap. Rhiannon uttered a gasp of frustration, and Kicva
looked up.

“Ah, have you worked out the puzzle at last?” she asked.

“Puzzle?” Rhiannon snapped. “Do you think I am playing a
game?”

“Not every puzzle is a game. Some are matters of life and
death,” Kicva replied placidly.

Rhiannon was silent, ashamed at having lashed out at her
mother without cause. “There is no answer to this puzzle, I fear,” she said at
last. “I do not wish to love Simon, but I cannot cure myself.”

“Why should you wish to do so?”

Kicva was not the least surprised by Rhiannon’s statement.
Llewelyn’s letter had been very explicit and had given, as accurately as he
could—for he knew better than to lie to Kicva—both sides of the story as he had
heard them from Simon and Rhiannon. Interestingly, the letter had ended with a
request for Kicva to send her news to Builth keep when she had any.