“Sometimes my mother has foreseeings,” Rhiannon admitted, a little uncomfortable but again driven to confession by Alinor’s kindness. “She strung the loom soon after Simon first came to visit us. I—perhaps she had some premonition that I would need a grand dress different from those I usually wear.”
Alinor struggled with herself briefly and then said with a calm gravity that concealed amusement, “Your mother has foreseeings, but you do not.”
“Oh, no, never,” Rhiannon assured her, eager to clear herself of that suspect skill.
Simon had warned her that it was better not to bring such things into the open, and after that dreadful experience with Madog, Rhiannon was in complete agreement with him. But Alinor had not given witchcraft a thought. She was only amused. Alinor was quite sure Kicva had not foreseen any need for Court dress, only for a marriage gown—and that would not have taken much skill at foreseeing, considering Simon’s behavior.
“There would not be time to make up a dress,” Alinor said, “but there is nothing to fear. Among all of us, there will be clothing enough for you to borrow, if that is necessary.”
The bath came in then, with its attendant train of men lugging water and maids carrying herbs and soap and drying cloths. Another maid carried a platter of cold meat and bread, since dinner was over and it would be some hours before the evening portions would be served. Alinor was much interested when, bathed and fed, Rhiannon assumed her full regalia. She had thought at first that it must be Rhiannon’s resistance to him that had captivated Simon. Now she realized there was something much more important. There was a strangeness, a hint of the violent and barbaric past.
“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.’”
Chapter Seventeen
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.”
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