But then she proved him wrong, and finally uttered words that cut him deeper than any blade.
“I believed you.”
No anguish or recrimination. Just simple truth, and it felt like a fatal wound.
She remained a statue, never moving, a perfect and untouchable beauty. He waited for her to turn and leave him, dreading the sight of her walking away. It would feel like death. Already it felt like death.
When one of the servants brought him a horse with his small bag of possessions hung from the saddle, he could not bring himself to mount. Even when Will called to him and said they must start out before the light began to fail, he could not move.
Finally he realized that she would not move from where she stood. He would be the one to leave, not her. Oh, the things she said without words.
He never knew how he mounted, or whose horse it was. The only clear memories were Fuss, and Lady Eluned. Fuss looked up at him, barking anxiously, confused as to why Nan did not command him to follow Gryff.
Then as he looked away from the dog, afraid he would weep at the sight of its sweet and eager face, Lady Eluned appeared at his knee. She bade him a formal farewell and murmured in Welsh, “If there is a child, it will not be yours. Do you understand?”
He closed his eyes against the sharp stab of pain. He understood. Of course he did.
The feel of it as it leaves your hand, Nan had said to him. You will know if you’ve done right by how it feels.
But he felt only a cold sickness as he rode away from her. He felt nothing but her silence like a cloak of condemnation, her words lodged like a splinter in his heart.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He had thought it might be the falconers who would resist his authority most strongly, but it was the bards with whom he clashed immediately and most frequently. It was not their counsel he objected to, nor even their politics. It was their poetry.
“Better to lament my brothers were sacrificed so young than to praise the battles they fought,” he had said – mildly, he thought, which was no easy thing when he was so disgusted.
When he had first arrived, the chief bard seemed intent on performing poem after poem about the noble defense of Aderinyth, how its fallen prince had fought most valiantly against foreign rule. Gryff said they must stop singing of senseless death as a glorious thing, and was told that he had no right to dictate how the bards composed their record of history. His rule was temporary, after all, while their work lived on for generations.
“There will be no praise for Edward the Norman king, save this one verse where he does recognize your authority,” the chief bard had declared one day. “That he returned you to us is his only worthy deed, my lord prince.”
After the first month, Gryff had given up on trying to stop them from calling him prince. So long as the title was not given to his sons, the king did not care. Edward almost seemed to prefer it, so that he could boast of how princes knelt before him.
“Nor do I wish your poems to praise Edward,” Gryff had said to the old bard, his patience worn thin after weeks of this same argument. “I ask only that you not stand in my hall and sing how righteous was my father’s cause, and how good that so many died for it.”
The bard gave his answer like it was another performance in the hall, when it was only a handful of advisors in the solar. He spread his arms wide. “Your father gave his sons and his life, all for the people of Aderinyth, and I will praise each drop of blood he shed. What does Prince Gruffydd know of sacrifice?”
Sacrifice. The word had echoed in Gryff’s head while he swallowed down the anger, and pushed aside the memory of her face. Finally, he said that the bard’s services were no longer required in his court, and dismissed him. He turned to Rhys, who was much younger but fully trained, and appointed him the new chief bard of the household. It broke with tradition, but he refused to bow to the old ways in all things.
He had chosen well. The young bard Rhys was eager to prove himself, but not so eager that he spoke only flattery. The poems he sang about the old princes praised their wisdom and generosity more than their valor in battle, and spoke more of the alliances made than the discord and strife that had torn Wales apart. He proved a pleasant companion all through the summer.
“Will my lord tell me of that time before he returned to his home and his people?” Rhys asked, not for the first time.
It was his duty to learn everything he could of Gryff’s life and be witness to his reign, so that he could commit it to song. This was the old way a bond was formed between bard and lord, hours spent together advising and reminiscing, ensuring there was no corner of his mind that was a mystery to the poet.
But Gryff had avoided telling him anything beyond the moment when the thieves were slain. He was dimly amazed, almost amused at how easy it was to speak of the things that still disturbed his sleep sometimes. He told the bard of the fire at the abbey, the villainy of Baudry’s men, and even Brother Clement’s death. But then he merely said an armed party had saved him by chance. When prompted for more, he answered that he had soon learned the king would allow him to rule in Aderinyth, and so he had come.
The bard Rhys was no fool for all that he was young, but was careful in how he pressed for more. Now it was the night before Gryff’s betrothed would arrive. They drank too deeply, and when Rhys asked again, the words slipped out.
“There was a girl with golden hair.” The light of interest in Rhys’ eyes was so keen it sobered him a little. Gryff rubbed a hand across his face, thinking of how she had told him not to hide from memory. He would fail her in that, too. “When I am old and gray, ask me again,” he mumbled, and then took himself to his cold bed, where he tried to forget her mouth, her sighs, the beat of her heart.
He spent the morning observing the progress with the youngest goshawks. The falconers had not liked being told there would be no more strict secrecy about the nests. They had spent these past five years resisting in their own way, pretending to the Normans there were fewer birds come to nest and giving less than the promised number to the king. Most had bristled at Gryff’s command to give an honest account of the nestlings to the king’s men, but they obeyed him to a man.
They respected him because he had been trained by Philip Walch, and they obeyed him because he was their prince. It was Philip’s son, himself a falconer, who had told him that after his father’s death the falconers had agreed among themselves to obey no one but Prince Gruffydd. This was his comfort, to know that no more of them would die needlessly. Aderinyth’s one resource would no longer be held hostage to spite a king, and could be used to make a better life for his people. All of it was only possible because he had returned to them.
Now he watched two young gyrfalcons spread their feathers under the midmorning sun and wished he could keep one for himself. But one must go to Edward, and the other sold to bring in sorely needed coin. If his wedding happened soon enough, perhaps Hal would come and be able to see these two before they were traded away. He could bring Tiffin.
Even that thought was painful. Hal. Tiffin. Nan in a dark yard throwing knives into a post. All the memories he should not hide from but could not look at, even the happy ones. Especially the happy ones.
Word came that Will’s party was traversing the final hills, and Gryff went to the wall-walk atop the keep to watch their arrival. The castle that Edward had commanded built was barely started, but there was this one tower and it was enough to house the guests. Even better, it was set in a perfect place to overlook the hills and valleys of Aderinyth. It was a glorious view.
This was the only thing about returning home that held no disillusionment or aggravation. When he had come to the manor that he had called home as a boy, it had felt very different from what he remembered. The hall he had thought so enormous in his youth was, in reality, smaller than Lancaster’s stables. His mother’s solar was as dark and cramped as the hut in Wragby that he had thought so poor.
But the hills, the sharp peaks and the glimmer of mou
ntain lakes, the river winding along the valley floor, the hawks wheeling against the sky – that was even bigger than he had remembered, and he took any excuse to come up here and look at it spread out before him.
When he saw the party making their slow way through the valley, he understood why they were more than a week later than anticipated. It was an absurd amount of baggage for one lady and her few attendants. In the end, he had not met her at court because she had spent the week in prayer at some shrine or another. They had yet to agree on a date to be wed, but now she was come to see this place that would be her home, and be married here.
“On my honor, Gryff, I would have warned you had I known.”
It was the first thing Will said to him, under his breath, after they had greeted one another in the forecourt. He did not look weary as so many travelers did after the arduous journey through the hills, but his face betrayed an exasperation that Gryff had never seen before, so practiced was Will at hiding anything as petty as annoyance.
The cause of his irritation was Gryff’s intended, Lady Margaret, who seemed so devoted to prayer that she had little thought for any earthly concerns. This included the inconvenience she caused by insisting on traveling with so much baggage, and stopping several times every day for rest and prayer. Even in her greeting to Gryff, her first question was to ask where the chapel was so that she might give thanks for their safe journey.
He was happy to point her to it, and ignored her obvious disapproval that he did not join her. Instead he had some beer brought for Will and showed him the gyrfalcons, and the progress on the castle.
The servants were a mix of Welsh and English, and all were eager to see to the comfort of the guests. The feast was impressive and the entertainment in the hall was even better, to Gryff’s mind, than what a Norman keep could offer. Hospitality and poetry were both held sacred here, and sincerely shared with every visitor. He had almost forgotten that.
“I vow it is more beautiful here than ever you could describe,” said Will that evening. They sat together in the chamber set aside for him, with its window that looked out onto the northern ridge, drinking and talking into the night. “Will we go hawking tomorrow? Nor can I stay long, so much has your betrothed delayed me, but there will be time to fly a falcon or two.”
“Aye, we will.”
Gryff almost thanked him again for escorting Lady Margaret but thought it better to speak of anything else, so much did the thought of her sour his mood. She was a rather timid and bland-looking lady, who dressed so plain and modest that he wondered what she could have filled her baggage with. There seemed little to her character at all, aside from an overabundance of piety. It was probably why Will disliked her overmuch. He had a particular aversion to religious fervor.
Gryff turned the talk instead to affairs in Will’s lands, and the prospect of Edward’s intended crusade. It was pleasant, a welcome thing to see Will so relaxed and unguarded. “Time away from court suits you well, Will,” he said.
“It does,” he replied. “It can be a poisonous place.”
A silence fell between them that went on long enough that Gryff knew it was not by chance. He braced himself to hear some bit of unwelcome news, some new thing the king wanted of him. But Will’s words, when they came, were a different kind of blow. He did not look at Gryff as he said them, but at the fire.
“She is not with child,” he said quietly, and took a long drink of his wine.
They had never spoken a word of it, but there was no doubt what he meant. Gryff stared at the embers. He wondered what exactly Will knew, and how he knew it. He wondered if he could be trusted, if his mother had confided anything about it, if anyone else at court knew.
He didn’t ask any of it. He just looked at the embers for a very long time in silence, and mourned a child that had never been more than a forbidden dream.
“Where is she?” he asked. He had tried to imagine her at Morency, with Fuss at her heels as she tracked down thieves or chased off poachers. Now he wondered if she was with Lady Eluned in the north of Wales, and felt a violent stab of jealousy at the thought that Will might have seen her recently.
“She journeys to Burgundy, and then on to Basel.” Will reached for the bottle and poured more wine into Gryff’s cup. He very kindly did not look Gryff in the face. “Some task she has undertaken for Lord Robert, to see some cargo safely through England and then to distant shores.”
Burgundy. Basel. They would not even share an island. No more could he imagine, when he looked at the eastern hills, that she was just beyond them. He fought down a sudden anger at her, the bitterness he carried every day in a secret corner of his heart, because she had not come with him. She should be here. She would never be here, because she rejected what little he could give her.
Never will she truly need you, Philip Walch had taught him about fierce and beautiful creatures. She will stay with you so long as it suits her, but she will never be tame.
He knew he must try to stop wanting her. He must. Even if he could do the impossible – find a way to give her more, or bring himself to abandon his people – it was too late. The knowledge sat like a heavy stone in his breast, a lifeless weight that threatened to suffocate him. She did not want him now. Her face when he left her was all he saw when he closed his eyes.
He was just another lord, like all the others who had used her.
“I would like to drink until I am blind with it,” he announced.
“A fine idea,” agreed Will. He drank down what was in his cup and reached for the bottle to pour more. “By God, I would like that too, after that journey. I hope you like your wife better than I do, or you will spend all your days blind drunk.”
“Another fine idea,” Gryff said, and held out his cup to be filled again.
Will stayed less than a week, which was long enough to help negotiate a date for Gryff to be wed and to issue a warning about Rhodri.
“There has been no word of him. He is not in Rome and I would wager my own inheritance he does not journey there.” Will looked around the crowded hall suspiciously, as though Rhodri might appear from the shadows. “You are certain sure these men can be trusted?”
Gryff shrugged. “I know they have no love for Rhodri. They have given proof enough, and I may put my faith in that.”
Rhodri had left the king’s court the same afternoon that Gryff had arrived. He had gone immediately to Aderinyth, hoping to claim it as his own with the support of the people – but he had found a cold welcome. For years, the story of how he had tried to kill Gryff had been sung by the bards, who painted him as the villain he was. The people of Aderinyth would not tolerate him, and he had barely escaped with his life.
Will loved that story, and asked Rhys to set it to verse and sing it every night of his visit.
After being run out of Aderinyth, Rhodri had announced that he would go to Rome and appeal to the Pope. It was too ridiculous to be taken as anything but jest; he knew as well as anyone that the Church cared nothing about this dispute. But Rhodri had disappeared and for nearly three months now, there had been no sign of him in England or Wales. Either he was licking his wounds in private or plotting to somehow usurp Gryff’s place.
“Were I to die, would Edward grant him these lands?” Gryff asked.
“I hope not,” was Will’s answer. “But I dare not say it is impossible. We have a pragmatic king in Edward, and he sees the value in having a Welshman of the old blood as ruler here, one who owes his place to him.”
More than ever, Gryff did not like to think how Rhodri would rule these people if allowed. It was another vindication of his decision to return, despite the cost.
If not for Will’s persistence, they might never have settled on a date for the wedding. Lady Margaret seemed as disinclined to wed as Gryff did. She rejected every proposed date, citing Church restrictions on certain days of the week and saints’ days and the many periods of abstinence – all of which, when considered together, did not allow any day of the year when the
y might hold a wedding feast. Finally, they had agreed on a day just after Michaelmas, and the decision hung like a millstone around his neck. Guests would begin arriving in only a few weeks.
His future wife’s only redeeming feature was that she was not outright scornful of his people. She very obviously found their customs strange – the Welsh habit of warm familiarity that was more egalitarian than the Norman way seemed especially difficult for her – but she seemed to be attempting to adapt to it. Gryff saw little of her, as she kept to the chapel and her chambers in the tower, and he preferred it that way. He could not imagine their wedding night, or ever being happy to go to the bed of a woman so meek and pious.
One day after Will had left, Gryff came to the solar in the old manor house to find her there without her ladies, standing alone at the window. He felt a flash of anger toward her, because she stood where he had imagined Nan so many times.
They were nothing alike, in looks or temperament. Lady Margaret’s silence was not soothing. There was no mystery to it, or quiet communication, or even peace. He only felt quietly judged with every breath.
“My lord,” she said, and cast her eyes down demurely as she stood with folded hands.
It was not fair to her, or to the people who would soon call her their lady, to treat her as a stranger and a burden. It was not only the Welsh who called him lord, and his treatment of her would be seen as a reflection of his feelings for the English under his rule.
So he tried. He said that he hoped to keep this manor house despite the new castle being built nearby, but she only nodded. He asked if she liked the view of the valley from this window, and she nodded again. It was only when he said that this had been his mother’s solar and that she too was very devoted to her prayers that Lady Margaret showed anything like interest.
“Your mother lives with the sisters at Cairusk,” she said. Her voice was so timid he thought it must be an affectation, put on because she thought it would please him. “Always have I wanted... I have thought myself more suited to that kind of life.”
Desire Lines (Welsh Blades, #3) Page 26
