“Am I such a fool as to be ensorcelled by a handsome face?” Rhiannon asked furiously.
“I did not think so,” Kicva replied, “but you must know yourself better than I can. What you say, I must accept.”
“What?” Rhiannon cried, stamping her foot. “You say I am like all those others, creeping after him to beg for a kiss for the sake of his beauty.”
“I did not say that at all.” Kicva’s voice was perfectly grave, and her eyes did not lift from her weaving. “I have no idea what you will do. You heard what I said. If you want to know more certainly what I mean, you must ask me. If you want to decide for yourself what I mean—that is your right.”
“Why am I so uneasy?” Rhiannon asked plaintively.
“Because you desire Simon de Vipont,” Kicva replied, and this time her lips did twitch with amusement.
Rhiannon, who had turned a little away, whirled back so violently that her swirling skirt flashed into the face of an abnormally large cat, which leapt backward hissing.
“So you do think I have been entrapped by a handsome face.”
“I saw a great deal more in Simon de Vipont than his handsome face and magnificent body,” Kicva said calmly. “However, if you can find no more in him than his beauty, and if that has the power to destroy your peace, then I suppose what you say of yourself is true.”
“But I am not a fool, Mother. I am not. What is wrong with me?”
“I have told you that already.”
“But why should I desire him? I have known handsome men before.”
“Perhaps because Simon is more than just a magnificent male animal.”
“Are you pleading his cause?” Rhiannon stooped and lifted the cat, who had come and rubbed his head forgivingly on her ankle.
“Not at all.” Kicva laid down her shuttle and looked up. “I do not usually need to explain you to yourself, Rhiannon. I thought I had taught you that lying to yourself is the most dangerous lie of all. Why do you do it now?”
“Because I am afraid. Did you ever love a man, Mother?”
“You mean aside from Gwydyon? No. I have not that nature. I have been fond of many, but love…I think not.”
“Was that all you felt for my father? Only fondness?”
Kicva smiled. “For Llewelyn? Not even that—no. Llewelyn is not a man of whom a woman can be only fond. One can only love him to madness and self-exclusion—or not love him at all.”
“Then why is he my father?” Rhiannon asked, obviously surprised.
This time Kicva laughed aloud. “Did you think he had cast me out? Or that I nursed a wounded heart? You know I would have told you. You wished to believe me tender—and so I am, but not in that way. Llewelyn and I were good friends. We still are. Why I chose him to father you? I admired him, and my body craved his.”
“As you say mine craves Simon’s?”
“That I do not know. I did not wish to be Llewelyn’s woman as my mother Angharad was my father’s woman, only to take pleasure of him, to give him pleasure, and to beget a daughter. I wanted him to father my child, not to be mine—well, I knew that was impossible.”
“You said you did not want him because you could not have him,” Rhiannon said angrily. “Who is lying to herself now?”
Kicva’s clear eyes met her daughter’s. “I could have had him and held him—but what I held would not have been Llewelyn. Your father is more prince than man. To hold him to me, I would have had to turn his nature inside out and tear him from his first love—the glory and power of Gwynedd. Besides…” Kicva left that unfinished and began again. “You and I are much alike in looks, my daughter, but not in our hearts. Believe me, I never longed to bind any soul to mine, nor have my soul bound to another’s.”
“Yet you desired a daughter.”
“Our line breeds one daughter, at least, in each generation. And the tie between parent and child is a bond that does not tether, or should not. You are free to go and never return, if that is your need. It is different between a man and a woman.”
Rhiannon sighed and sat down. The cat was heavy, and she knew it was useless to try to bait her mother, who really did have a calm of spirit that surpassed Rhiannon’s understanding.
“Very well, let us say I do desire Simon—what am I to do?”
“How should I know?” Kicva asked. “It is your desire. Only you can know how to satisfy it. All I can tell you is to make sure what you desire before you grasp for it. Is it only your body de Vipont has wakened? You have been very long about growing into a woman, Rhiannon.”
The cat was purring in a steady roar so loud that Rhiannon had to raise her voice a trifle. “I began my flux at the usual time. What do you mean?”
“The flux does not make a woman. At ten or twelve, a girl with her flux is still a child; at forty or fifty, a woman without her flux is still a woman—in every way. All I meant is that until now you have shown no sign of interest either in bedding or begetting.”
“It is not a child I want,” Rhiannon said quickly, and then wondered if that was true. Simon’s child? That was a pleasant thought.
“Probably not,” her mother agreed.
“Perhaps I merely wish to couple?”
“That might be so. All beasts have their seasons,” Kicva said judicially.
“And am I no more than a beast?” Rhiannon cried.
“Your body is no different from the body of a beast—it is a body. You are not a beast because you can rule your body. A heifer couples when she is in season. If the bull is not there, she bellows for him; when he comes, she yields—any bull, any time. You can choose your time, your bull, or not to couple at all according to the dictates of your soul. Thus, you are Rhiannon, and a heifer is a heifer. But the desire is the same.”
Rhiannon knew all that. Kicva might not have been so explicit in the past—she never offered more than her daughter asked for—but the body/soul dichotomy in humankind had been discussed thoroughly in other than sexual aspects. Suddenly Rhiannon began to laugh. The big cat rose, stretched himself, leapt down to the floor, and stalked away.
“Math knows,” Rhiannon said, looking fondly at the tiger-striped animal she had named for the high king of ancient Wales. “He senses that I do not need comfort any longer. I think you are right, Mother. I think this heifer has been wandering the fields bawling for a bull. And all my bad temper has been owing to lying to myself about it.”
“And so what will you do now that you have decided this?” Kicva asked.
“Go to my father and look around him for a bull, of course,” Rhiannon said lightly.
Kicva smiled slowly and swung herself back to her loom. Her eyes clouded for a moment as she looked at her weaving. Then she nodded. “Yes,” she said, “if that is what you want, do that.”
She began to weave again without watching as her daughter got to her feet and walked away, presumably to begin examining her clothing to see what she had to take to court with her. Kicva would not argue with a decision Rhiannon had made, nor would she offer her any except the most general advice. In the past Rhiannon had always made the correct decision, but Kicva had never seen her daughter so much disturbed. Would the fear she recognized and admitted distort her reasoning and drive her into the arms of a man she did not want, just to avoid one she wanted too much?
The cloth in the loom might then never be used for the purpose Kicva had in mind when she began it. She had strung the loom the day after Simon brought Rhiannon to Angharad’s Hall in the end of March. At first she had wondered whether she could finish the cloth in time; now she wondered whether she should finish it at all. If Rhiannon chose a bull at random, de Vipont might be unwilling… That was ridiculous. If he was of the kind that cared so much for a maidenhead, or could not see that such an act of desperation had nothing to do with true feeling, then Rhiannon was far better off without him.
When that thought had been formed and absorbed, Kicva smiled again and her shuttle flew faster. It was not likely she was so wrong about Simon—or about Rhiannon
either.
The blow that Walter and Geoffrey predicted the king would deliver fell on Sir Gilbert Bassett before Richard of Cornwall returned from the funeral in Oxfordshire. Without apparent cause, Henry disseisined Bassett of Upavon, a manor in Wiltshire, and gave it to Peter de Maulay. Ian blamed himself for what had happened. He felt that his conversation with Winchester had confirmed the inevitability of war in the bishop’s mind. Thus, Winchester had urged Henry to disseisin Gilbert Bassett to start the conflict before his opponents could be ready.
Simon and Adam told him in one breath not to be ridiculous. Certainly, they pointed out, he was not the only one who had warned Winchester that the path the king was treading would lead to violence. Geoffrey agreed with them.
“This action cannot be a wild start on the part of the king. It is too clever, too apposite to the purpose. It must have been planned in June, after the first summons to council was so ill-answered,” he said bleakly. He was heavy-eyed and drawn, and his brothers-by-marriage looked at him with concern. “Henry might act out of furious impulse, but Winchester would have restrained him if he had not approved—and Winchester does not act on impulse. It has nothing to do with you, Ian. The fact that it is Upavon and Bassett shows planning.”
“Why?” Simon asked.
“Firstly, Bassett has a connection with Pembroke. They know each other and have lands in the same area—the southwest. However, the connection is not close enough that Richard should be obliged to support Bassett. If he does so, the king could say he is interfering without cause. Secondly, Upavon was the property of the Maulay family—to whom Henry has returned it—in the past. It was taken from them and given to Bassett’s father by King John. I do not know what the reason for the transfer was—”
“Sometimes John had perfectly just reasons for what he did,” Ian remarked.
“Quite true. In any case, that is not the problem. Perhaps the property should go back to Maulay. In truth, I suspect it was chosen because Maulay had a good claim. What is wrong is not the transfer; it is the way it was done. There are courts and judges to deal with such matters. If the king did not trust the judges, he could have heard the case himself. That is the point—there was no case, no judgment, only the king’s will.”
Adam mouthed an obscenity, adding, more practically, “I had not thought of that. It is a pretty trap. Say justice is on Maulay’s side. If we do not protest, we have agreed that the king’s will is law. If we do protest, we are unjust in backing Bassett’s desire to keep the land.”
“There is a middle path,” Geoffrey offered. “We can demand that Bassett’s claim be brought before the king’s court—but I greatly fear all will forget that and remember only that Gilbert Bassett was deprived of his land by the king’s will.”
“I do not care what they remember, so long as we do not have to bow down like Moslem slaves,” Simon exclaimed hotly.
Ian looked at him and sighed. He wished Simon would go back to Wales. Sooner or later his tongue would wag at the wrong moment, and he would be in real trouble. However, Ian remembered the expression of unspoken pain in his son’s face, and he suspected that a private hurt of which Simon would not speak kept his son in England.
“One thing I do not see,” Adam said suddenly. “How can the king be sure Pembroke will hear of this—oh, of course, Isabella will write to him, I suppose. She is his sister, after all.”
“Well, I will write to him whether Isabella does so or not,” Ian said. “Do you think I want to take the chance that he will be surprised by such news when he comes to court?”
“Why should he come? Possibly he will think this summons will be canceled as the last was,” Sybelle pointed out.
“Do not be such a goose,” Geoffrey replied. “This is the third summoning. If he does not come, that will be considered open defiance.”
“But I thought he had already defied the king last winter when he convinced so many not to come to the first council,” Simon said.
“That was a warning, not defiance,” Ian stated. “Richard—all old William Marshal’s sons are honorable men. I know Richard does not wish to come to blows with the king. This was one way, after his protests and explanations did not move Henry, to show the king how many men agreed with him. I did not go to the first summoning, nor did Norfolk, nor Ferrars, nor even Geoffrey.”
“Then why—”
“Simon, I have shown our disapproval by silence. At the second council I wished to speak it aloud. I suppose Richard did also, but the council was canceled. This time, he has no choice. You know as well as I that a man may be outlawed without trial if he does not come to a third summoning.”
“Yes, but does he know it is a third summoning?” Adam asked, his mouth grim. “If the second was canceled by the king, Richard might think this is only the second summoning and decide to try passive resistance again.”
Geoffrey shuddered suddenly. “No, I do not think that device will be used. I fear more and more that what you said the other day, Ian, is true. I fear Winchester has seen too clearly. If Pembroke is removed, there will be no man strong enough around whom the barons could rally.”
“Then it is not war, but an end to Richard Marshal’s meddling that is desired,” Adam growled.
“What do you mean?” Simon asked.
“If Richard cries out against this—would that not be a reason to seize him? If Richard were kept prisoner like de Burgh, is there another of sufficient courage and stature to oppose Winchester?”
There was an appalled silence. Geoffrey’s lips moved as if to protest that Henry was not as treacherous as his father, but he did not say the words. Henry had gone to pray with Hubert de Burgh, had kissed his lips and said he was all his strength and only on him could reliance be placed—and a week later de Burgh was a prisoner. It would not be open treachery to take Richard prisoner if a shadow of a reason could be presented, and, in the heat of argument about the “wrong” done Bassett, no doubt more than a shadow of defiance and rage would be shown.
“He must be warned,” Simon cried, leaping to his feet.
His own ties with the Marshal family were closest since Lady Pembroke had died, ending Alinor’s friendship of many years. Simon did not know Richard very well because the Earl of Pembroke’s second son had spent most of his life in France; the French estates were to be his. Nonetheless, Simon could not ignore the possibility that his former master’s brother would fall into a trap.
“Yes, he must be warned,” Ian agreed, “but I have not the faintest idea of where he is. I had intended to write to Pembroke keep, from where my letter would be sent on, but this is more urgent than mere news.”
“Perhaps Isabella will know,” Simon suggested.
“Ride over and ask,” Geoffrey said, “and do not be afraid to tell Isabella everything. She will not fall into a fit.”
This second daughter of Isobel of Clare was very like her mother, soft of voice and manner, gentle, but not weak. She listened to Simon quietly, and, although her voice trembled, she wasted no time on useless cries nor did she exaggerate or belittle what was a real possibility but not a fact. Still, she could not be of help. All she knew was that her brother was definitely expected in London by the end of July.
“He will be on the road by now,” Isabella said, “but I have no idea which way he intended to come. He might even stop at Wallingford to talk to Richard—my husband, I mean. It is so confusing to have a brother and husband both named Richard. And then they might come by river. But, Simon, I think he would come anyway, even if you warned him.”
Since Simon himself would have come anyway, he did not contest this conclusion. He accepted Isabella’s assurance that she would tell her husband of Adam’s suspicion as soon as he arrived home and would let Ian know as soon as either Richard—Cornwall or Pembroke—came. But he was dissatisfied and restless, and, at last, Ian suggested that it would do no harm if he and Walter rode out toward Wales for a few days. Nothing more could happen, Ian said, until August first when the thi
rd summoning must be answered.
Chapter Four
Ian was wrong in his belief that nothing more would happen until the council began, but he was glad to have Simon out of the way when Gilbert Bassett arrived to complain at court the following week. Gilbert maintained stoutly that the escheat of Upavon was settled on his father for service to King John and that he had done nothing to merit being deprived of it. He would plead his right and show that Maulay had not been unjustly deprived. Gilbert offered to take his case before a judge, before the king, or before God in judicial combat.
Instead of agreeing to any of the offers made, Henry called Bassett a traitor and threatened that if he did not leave his court forthwith he should be hanged like a dog. Not satisfied, the king also ordered that Richard Siward, who had married Gilbert’s sister, should be imprisoned. The crime was that the marriage had not been approved by the king. If true, Siward and Bassett had committed an offense, but not the kind that merited imprisonment. Failure to get royal permission to marry was a common occurrence, to be satisfied with a fine—small or large according to the king’s temper and the wealth of the perpetrator.
It was now obvious that Henry intended to use Bassett as an object lesson. Richard of Cornwall had arrived, but he and Geoffrey could not move Henry. The king had the bit well between his teeth. He cried furiously that he was not a babe to be governed always by other men, that he would rule as a king or not rule at all. If Cornwall’s and Geoffrey’s remonstrance had any effect upon him, it was a bad one. The next move Henry made was to send more messengers hastening out with a demand that hostages for the good behavior of his barons be brought to him before the first of August.
Hard on the heels of this news, Richard Marshal arrived at his sister’s house. He had come by the main road with only a few men-at-arms. The small troop served the double purpose of making him inconspicuous and of marking his “trust” in the king’s goodwill. Simon had missed him on the road, but by chance they rode into London the same day and Simon arrived at Cornwall’s house to ask whether Richard was there only an hour after he had come.
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