If things had gone as Winchester desired, Pembroke’s deputy would have been put off with some likely excuse such as that the king’s messenger had been delayed and Usk could not be handed over until the writ came. Two chances to one the deputy would have waited at least a week before sending a message to warn Richard that the king had broken his word and that Usk was still in his hands. But by then, Richard would have been at Westminster already, and if so, his protest could have been used as a reason to imprison him.
Instead, the king’s perfidy was displayed to all the barons so openly that they could not ignore it even if they wished. Now the retaking of Usk could begin without delay, and, far more important, Pembroke was well removed from the king’s power and safe on his own lands.
“You know what this means,” Ferrars said heavily. “Henry will send out another summons to war.”
“I cannot answer it,” Geoffrey stated flatly. “I was one of the sureties that Usk would be returned.”
Ferrars nodded. “I do not think Pembroke will hold you liable to fight against the king. I do not know what I will do.” The earl’s voice was suddenly old, broken. “I have never wavered in my faith, but this cause is foul! It stinks in all men’s nostrils.”
“There are many mercenaries in the land,” Geoffrey remarked neutrally.
This was the second string to Winchester’s bow, Geoffrey thought. No doubt the bishop would have preferred the easy way of taking Pembroke prisoner and quelling a rebellion that had no focal point. However, it was unlikely that he really believed things would be so easy. He must have half-expected that someone would warn Richard to stay away. But if the barons would not come to the summons and still Pembroke could be broken with the strength of the mercenaries, Winchester would have gained as much.
These dismal thoughts were broken by Ferrars’ unmirthful bark of laughter. “Mercenaries will avail him nothing. Still, I wish I knew where this would end. It is Winchester—all Winchester—and just when there is no Archbishop of Canterbury. If only there were another man such as Stephen Langton to curb Peter des Roches…”
Geoffrey doubted that even the Pope could curb Peter des Roches, but Ferrars’ remark had given him another idea. The king’s faith was really quite strong. Perhaps there was some way to involve the Church, although thus far the bishops had been reluctant to combine against Winchester. For some, this was owing to a lack of courage, but the best of the high churchmen had more than enough spirit. The trouble was that these men were also truly religious and most careful to obey the dictum that what was Caesar’s must be rendered unto Caesar. They would not interfere in the political management of the kingdom, except by pleading as impartial persons for mercy and justice. Still, Geoffrey liked his idea so much that he took it home to Ian and Alinor.
“It is a good thought,” Alinor remarked, pursing her lips. “Roger of London and Robert of Salisbury are strong enough and can carry with them many weaker vessels, but they will need a cause that touches the Church. There is no sense waiting for something to turn up. Perhaps—”
“No, Alinor,” Ian said apprehensively, “for God’s sake, let us not embroil ourselves with God’s elect. Let us see what comes to light in this conference. The bishops will all be in London, and I promise I will sound them out. Then we will know better how to direct our efforts.”
“Very well, I will do nothing until the conference,” Alinor agreed. Her son-by-marriage and husband breathed more freely until, a moment later, she added, “But I will think about it,” which made them groan gently.
Simon had been no more enthusiastic than Rhiannon when it was agreed that the safest thing to do was for him to take his betrothed out riding. She had gone with him as she was bid, but she was bristling like a cat about to spit, though Simon gave her no immediate cause to be angry. In silence he helped her into her saddle and in silence foll- owed wherever she wandered, remaining a few paces behind her. Finally, after they had dismounted and Rhiannon had sat down on a fallen log, her irritation spilled over in speech.
“What do you accomplish by this?” she snapped.
“Nothing,” Simon answered mildly. “Believe me, I would not be in your company if it was not necessary.”
“I am very glad to hear that,” Rhiannon interrupted caustically.
Simon shrugged. “It is true enough, but only because I know myself to be in the wrong, and I know you to be too angry to listen to my apology. For both of us it would be better to be apart. Since we are constrained to be in company, what can I do but hold my tongue?”
“So you are in the wrong?”
“Yes. I know now you had no choice but to go to the king. My father should have gone with you, but I can only thank you for not asking it of him. He was not well, I know. In any case, my choice of words and tone were uncivil. I was out of temper and tired, and I struck out at you.”
There was a long silence after that. Rhiannon wandered away from the tree, drifting aimlessly here and there. Simon did not follow her, only turning so that he could keep her in sight. The horses, tethered to a low branch, nibbled at the leaves of bushes and at the thin blades of grass that straggled wherever a patch of sunlight fell. Eventually Rhiannon returned and resumed her seat on the log.
“Not all the fault was yours,” she admitted quietly.
“It is ever so,” Simon replied, equally quietly. “One cannot quarrel with a stone wall. But the initial fault was mine, and so it is for me to take the blame. It is sweeter and easier, Rhiannon, that you are willing to share with me.”
“Blame, yes. My life, no.”
It was said gently, sorrowfully. Simon breathed in as if he had been cut, but he did not speak for a few minutes. Finally he looked away from her face, which he had been watching.
“That seems a harsh punishment for a few hasty and unwise words.”
She stood up and took his hand in hers. “You know I do not mean it so, Simon. I said as many hasty and unwise words. I knew you were tired and had only to hold my tongue and all would blow over. I am as much at fault as you—I have said that already. I am sorry to give you pain also, but I am trying in the only way I know to spare us both worse in the future. Dear Simon, it is not what you said to me or what I said to you that brought me to this decision. It is what caused me to answer you with such bitterness when there was no cause to do so.”
“Rhiannon, if you think people who love each other do not quarrel, you are truly an innocent. Roselynde, as you know, is a strong keep, but there were times when I thought that my mother and father would have it down around our ears by their violence. Yet surely you must see they love each other.”
“You did not listen. It was not the quarrel that distressed me but what I felt before it. What did you hunt yesterday, Simon?”
He looked at her in considerable surprise but would not chance angering her again and answered simply, “A stag. We lost two before we finally killed. I could not divert those idiots no matter what I said. And then—”
“I was sure it was a doe.”
“There is no harm in taking a doe in this season,” Simon said with a slight frown of puzzlement. “Do you have some special feeling about it, my love? I will swear, if you like, to hold does sacred.”
“A two-legged doe, Simon,” Rhiannon said pointedly, with a bitter twist to her lips.
Simon stared at her, his mouth partly open on further words that were not relevant. Then he laughed. “You are ridiculous! How could you dream such a thing? I had you the night before. I could look forward to loving you the very next night. Even if I felt such a desire—which I assure you I did not, I am no satyr—you must think ill of me indeed if you believe I could not master myself for so short a time.”
“I do not think ill of you. In my mind I knew every word you have just said—and knew the words were true. Nonetheless, Simon, I suffered as cruelly as if you had betrayed me.”
“But Rhiannon—”
“I cannot bear it, Simon. I cannot! I absolve you of your oath. I do n
ot wish to know or care—”
“You cannot absolve me of my oath. If you wish to withdraw yours, I cannot stop you. And if I have you, it must be with honor. If I cannot have you, then I will remain celibate as a priest until I am too old to care, but I will have no other woman, Rhiannon.”
“Listen to me. Be reasonable,” she begged. “Can you not see you are being cruel? I do not blame you in any way. I know you have been true. It is my mind, my heart that have failed. If I reach out to grasp you and hold you for my own, my fears and jealousy—whether real or unreal—will kill me.”
Simon stared at her and then put his arm around her and drew her to him. “What do you want me to do, Rhiannon? I love you. I cannot force you to take me, but I will not give you up for a whim of jealousy. I could not, even if I wished it. I do not desire any other woman.”
“Now. But if you put me out of your thoughts, in the years ahead—”
He laughed. “I may be dead in a few weeks in the next battle. It is ridiculous for me to think long years in the future.”
Rhiannon was as still in his arm as a wild hare that mimics death, but inside she had been seized by a cold shuddering. Simon dead? How could he speak of his own death with such indifferent serenity? Simon’s sidelong glance caught her loss of color, another confirmation, if any were needed, that she did love him. In a way it was very discouraging. Simon knew how to make a woman love him, but it seemed that the more Rhiannon loved him, the harder she struggled to be free. He really did not know what to do next.
She pulled free of him suddenly and ran away. Seeing that she was not keeping in sight as she had in her previous restless idling, Simon untied the horses and followed. He was really worried. This fleeing was symbolic of the inner emotion Rhiannon felt. When he thought back, he realized she had always done it. At Dinas Emrys, when she first realized she was beginning to love him, she had run away. And then she had tried to run into another man’s arms, just to avoid his at Aber.
How far would she run this time—not in the wood but in her thoughts? How could he catch her again? No, he knew the answer to that. There were multitudinous snares that could be set to trap a woman into love or to demonstrate to her that she already loved, but that was the last thing he needed. Rhiannon would be taken in the snare easily enough, since she did love him, but she would tear herself apart—as a fox would chew off its own leg—to get free.
For the first time in his life Simon was truly and deeply at a loss in how to handle a woman. When Rhiannon had sent him away the first time, he had been hurt and angered by the rejection, nonetheless he knew the right moves to conquer her—or so he had thought. Now he was lost himself and did not even know to whom to turn for help. Ian could only tell him what he himself knew; not even Kicva could guarantee the future; and there was no sense in having a priest tell Rhiannon to trust in the all-encompassing mercy of Christ and His Mother. Rhiannon went to Mass and professed Christianity, but she still swore by Anu and Danu. The dark, merciless gods of a dim past had a strong hold on her.
Rhiannon ran until she could run no farther, then threw herself down to catch her breath. While she ran, there was relief. Her mind had been blank, her consciousness devoted solely to her physical effort. When her body was still, however, her mind began to move again. Tears flooded her eyes and then sank back. No one could run forever, or do any other task without rest and food. There was no way out by that door.
Simon was waiting at a respectful distance, not imposing himself. It was the right thing to do and, because of that, more wrong than anything else. Rhiannon came near to hating him for his gentleness and understanding. If only he would be angry; if only he would intrude so that she could find him coarse and unfeeling; if only he would even stare at her in silent misery so she could tell herself he was falsely demanding attention. There was not even self-pity in his face nor the determination that often showed when she had denied him in the past. He hardly looked sad; he seemed more thoughtful or puzzled. There would be no escape through Simon’s unworthiness.
Although Rhiannon longed for her home and the freedom that she believed could bring her peace, she knew she could not leave England until she had at least one more meeting with the king. Somehow she needed to express clearly the idea for which she hoped she had laid the foundation, that she loved the king’s appreciation of her music and would sing for him regardless of any enmity that might exist between her father and him—so long as she was free to come and go. Then, clearly, she could not even break the betrothal with Simon.
She was stiff and cold when she finally rose and came toward Simon, who also stood. “We must come to some terms, Simon.”
In the hour and more that Rhiannon had wrestled with her fear and her conscience, Simon had done a good deal of thinking also. It had occurred to him, after he had struggled up out of a morass of hurt and self-pity, that this whole thing was a small pond stirred by a boy’s stick rather than a great storm at sea. Rhiannon had been subjected to so many new and unusual experiences, all piled atop one another and all in a very short time. She was not used to so many strange people admiring and threatening, to the strain of an unaccustomed task for which she was unprepared and found distasteful, to the demands of a large family, all loving but nonetheless all pulling at her in different directions. Most of all, she was probably totally disoriented by the constant busyness and noise, which permitted no time for quiet.
As he had enumerated the pressures on Rhiannon to himself, Simon grew somewhat more cheerful. Perhaps she was, in her own controlled way, hysterical. Perhaps the period in London, away from the anxieties of dealing with his family and the court, would help. But then there would be another bad period when Henry moved to Westminster. It would be better to put no additional burden on her, Simon thought, while she had so many to bear already. He could wait. When she was home in Angharad’s Hall, safe in her own place with her burdens dropped behind her, perhaps she would no longer fear to love.
Thus, he was better prepared for her appeal for terms than most lovers would have been. “I will not importune you,” he assured her, “but I will not release you from your oath to me, either.”
“No, I do not desire that. The betrothal must stand so long as I must deal with Henry, but you must understand it means nothing for the future. I will not marry you, Simon, nor do I any longer desire to hold you to your oath to me. You are free to do as you please with any woman you please.”
“A worthless freedom, and one you cannot give me. I am not bound to you because of my oath. I gave my oath because I was already bound. But I have said already that I will force nothing on you. What else do you expect of me?”
“I do not know,” Rhiannon admitted fretfully. “There is something about you that strokes me and whispers ‘love’ even when you are at the other end of a room looking elsewhere.”
In spite of his worry, Simon burst out laughing. “My infamous charm! I swear I do not do it apurpose—at least not to you.”
“Then it would be better, I think, if we were less often in the same place.”
Simon regarded Rhiannon silently. He subdued a new feeling of hurt and was able to accept it. “We must live in the same house in London,” he told her, “at least until the rest of the family arrives, but we can go separate ways. Before the Court comes, you will be safe enough with a small escort. I will not need to accompany you to the markets or whatever other diversions you choose.”
“And what will you do?”
The question pleased Simon. He had been afraid she would try to forget he was alive. “I will contrive to keep myself busy. I have friends I have not seen in some time —men friends.”
She nodded acceptance and indicated she wished to mount. As they rode slowly back to Oxford, Rhiannon found she felt better. The settlement they had reached and her belief that she could cure herself of her love once she was home were helpful, but the lightening of Simon’s mood was having a strong, if unrecognized, influence. Without thinking, Rhiannon asked a question about
the river that wound lazily below them. Simon replied, and by the time they reached the house they were, outwardly at least, on easy terms.
Alinor sensed something very wrong, but she said nothing. Rhiannon was essentially beyond her experience. It was as if a wild doe had suddenly chosen to join a flock of sheep. One watched it with pleasure but did not try to herd it.
Besides, no one had much time to think about Simon and Rhiannon. When Geoffrey returned from court, he found more news at home than what he brought. Richard’s herald had been accompanied by a small party for safety in traveling through the disturbed countryside, and one of that party had ridden aside to bring a letter from Walter. All were breathless when Ian read aloud by how narrow a margin they had averted disaster.
By God’s Grace, Walter wrote, I chose the road to Woodstock rather than to Burford on my way to Wales. Not a half-mile west of the town did I find Pembroke coming most innocently with only ten men and his two squires. By so slight a chance, the going on one road rather than another for only a few miles, was this enterprise saved.
“I cannot believe it only chance,” Gilliane breathed. “Surely God was our help in this matter.”
“God helped those who helped themselves by sending Walter out in the first place,” Adam said cynically.
The whole family laughed. That God helped those who helped themselves was Alinor’s favorite maxim and had been driven deep into her family’s heads by repeated usage.
Rhiannon Page 29
