“Most certainly,” Ian agreed. “Listen to this. Walter says that Richard did not wish to believe him. So fixed was the earl’s belief in the honor of those with whom he swore truce that had I not carried Lord Geoffrey’s letter under his own seal, he would have clung to the conviction that I spoke wild rumor only and would have come to Oxford that very night to do courtesy by riding under the king’s protection to Westminster. I wonder…” Ian looked up. “I wonder if that might have been better? The king would have been touched by such faith.”
Adam snorted. “Yes, until the snake hissed in his ear again.”
Ian made no reply to that, returning to the letter to read how Richard persisted in clinging to the hope that at the last minute Henry would not be able to break his word. “He agreed so far as to return to Usk, the letter continues, and send a herald to the king, vowing he would not move until the king’s own denial was delivered to him. There was a great anger held in check, however. I think when the truce is broken the earl will no longer hold himself back but will unleash his power and his fury.”
“I think so, too,” Adam said with grim satisfaction. “I am sorry his lands are so far from mine that I cannot offer the assistance of victualing or even of providing men, but I fear there will be many who will use the ill feeling against the king to raid here and there for their own profit.”
“So I think also,” Geoffrey agreed. “It will behoove us to keep our lands and—if we can—our neighbors quiet.”
“But what if the king prevails?” Joanna asked.
“He will. He must.” Geoffrey smiled wryly at the exclamations of horror that followed his statement, and added, “But I think Winchester will not. I do not think Winchester or Henry can lead any force effectively enough to hurt Pembroke. There are skilled captains among the mercenaries, but none strong enough to lead the whole group. I know. I have dealt with them. The king will be shamed worse than he was at Usk. At first he will be bitterer than ever against Pembroke, but when loss heaps on loss and he sees there is no path but reconciliation, he will abandon Winchester.”
“Yes. Then Richard will gladly make submission, and all will be well,” Ian said.
“After the blood and the death and the ravaging and the famine—oh, yes, then all will be well,” Alinor remarked bitterly. “This nation is accursed, I swear it. First there was King Richard, who did not care. Then there was King John, who cared but had a wrongness in him that turned all to evil. And now we have King Henry, who—”
“Hush, my love.” Ian kissed her silent. “He is young yet. He will learn.”
Whether she would have remained quiet was doubtful, but just then Simon and Rhiannon came in, and the whole matter needed to be explained to them.
“Thank God Walter found him,” Simon said. “Well, now what? I mean, do we go to London as planned, or back to Wales to bring this news to Prince Llewelyn?”
Geoffrey pulled the lobe of his ear in thought and then said, “To London. It is your belief that Llewelyn will join Pembroke against the king if Pembroke is firm to fight this time?” He accepted Simon’s nod and went on, “I think so, too. Then all the more will there be a need for Rhiannon to serve as an unguent between Henry’s too-sensitive feelings and Llewelyn’s harsh acts.”
A general murmur of approval from all preceded the decision that Simon and Rhiannon had better leave as soon as dinner was eaten. They were safe until then, but afterward there was the possibility that Henry would decide he needed Rhiannon’s singing to calm his spirit after all his vexation. It would serve all purposes best if she were gone. This, too, found ready agreement, but going to Alinor’s house in London was not as simple as packing one’s clothing and leaving.
The house was only a shell. To make it livable, furniture, linen, pots and pans, and everything else must be carried. But Alinor’s servants were accustomed to the procedure. While Rhiannon and Simon ate, maids and men scurried about dismantling and packing a selection of what had been brought to Oxford. Before the ladies and gentlemen had risen from the table, one cart was on its way with two maids, two men, and five of Simon’s men-at-arms as a guard.
Although Simon and Rhiannon could easily have ridden the full distance to London, they went only as far as Wallingford to avoid outdistancing the baggage cart. Richard and Isabella made them very welcome, and the visit served a double purpose. It permitted the story of Rhiannon’s fear of Winchester to be spread from another source. More important, in a personal way, was the other result of the visit. Isabella assumed without asking that Rhiannon would sleep in the women’s quarters and Simon in a chamber off the hall. This provided an easy solution to the problem of whether or not they would make love if they slept together.
Alinor had sent to the London house only the one large bed Simon and Rhiannon had shared, but this posed no problem. Simon’s traveling gear had been sent, since he expected to take Rhiannon directly back to Wales from London. Although his camp cot was not nearly as comfortable as the bed, he went to it with a sense of relief as well as of deprivation. Rhiannon was not the least shy. If she wanted him, she would tell him. Simon wished he was as sure of what the right response should be as he was that Rhiannon would not mind making the advances.
However, the question did not arise. Simon’s relief diminished as his sense of deprivation increased, but he still did nothing. Rhiannon was growing more natural in her manner to him each day, and that seemed more important than reestablishing the sexual relationship. Every so often Simon wondered whether she still thought of that ugly challenge she had made the night they quarreled. But he did not dare dwell on it, and he did not need to.
He found plenty of occupation for himself with various young men to whom he had sent word that Simon de Vipont was in London and was seeking sparring and jousting partners. A group of young men rode in and made a merry company in the house. They fought each other singly, in pairs, and in various combinations that took into account the varying strengths of the combatants. Simon was very good, but he was sufficiently bruised and battered when pitted against two or three lesser opponents that he was quite content to seek his cot for sleep without thinking of love—at least, not too often.
Rhiannon was far less unhappy than she expected to be. She was no lover of cities, with their dirt and stench and disease and unnatural crowding together of people and houses until there seemed scarce room for a blade of grass to grow. Nonetheless, the places she knew were nothing—flyspecks—compared with the town of London. Protected by Simon’s men-at-arms, she rode where she liked, alternately horrified and fascinated.
So, in spite of her distaste, in spite of the chills of horror that crawled over her when she thought of living in such a place, Rhiannon was aware that she might never see its like again. She wandered and poked and pried, bought seeds of strange herbs, bought silks as thin and as light as a mist. She had no money, but when she named Alinor’s house, the merchants brought the goods with eager swiftness—and Simon paid. Rhiannon did not give the matter any thought. Kicva or Llewelyn would settle the debt, she supposed.
These pleasant few days ended on September twenty-ninth when, as dark fell, a tired messenger rode in with a brief note from Ian to inform Simon that Hubert de Burgh had escaped from his prison in Devizes and had taken refuge in a church. Since Rhiannon had heard de Burgh’s name often enough but knew virtually nothing about him, she and Simon were up half the night while he explained de Burgh’s long and tumultuous career.
“Is he truly still dangerous?” she asked in the end.
Simon shrugged. “Impossible to say. He did many favors, but has virtually no blood kin, and you know how seldom favors make men grateful. But it also depends on the man himself. If he burns with hatred and resentment and cries aloud of his injuries demanding help from those he helped in their need, it is possible—considering the ill feeling against the king—that he could raise supporters. Then, too, he knows Henry. His advice might be of value to Henry’s enemies.”
“But if he is pent
up in a church…”
Simon shrugged again. “Not for long. This is an act of final desperation. He must have heard that Henry was ready to give charge of Devizes to Winchester. That, he feared, would be his death warrant. Perhaps the gaolers feared it also and did not want the death to stain their hands, so they let him go. But it is six of one and half a dozen of the other. The king will set men to surround the church and prevent food and water from being carried to him. That is how he was taken last time. To save himself from starving he came out of sanctuary. Of course, last time he expected mercy. This time…”
But matters were not allowed to work themselves out in a natural way. Another messenger came pounding in to London the very next night with a much longer letter. Hubert’s escape had not been the decision of the majority of his gaolers. Two young guards, William de Millers and Thomas the Chamberlain, had been stirred to pity by the broken old man. One had carried him, fetters and all, to the church. However, the master of Devizes, seeing ruin staring him in the face, sent out the whole garrison. They had found the fugitive and, instead of respecting the sanctuary, had beaten him and driven him back to Devizes, regardless of his clinging to the altar with a cross in his hands.
Simon grunted with excitement when he read this. It was a grave mistake, he thought, for the king was a religious man. Not only that, but the insult to the Church was just what his family had been trying to find that would rouse the bishops to combine against their fellow prelate. At present, Ian had written, Henry was so enraged that there was no approaching him, and he had ordered de Burgh strictly confined to the vault in which he had formerly been placed and fastened with three pairs of manacles; he was to have speech with no man whatsoever, including his guards. This, of course, was a further offense to the Church, that a man should be punished for seeking sanctuary. And, as Simon expected, the last of the letter directed him to take this news to the Bishop of London.
Early next morning Simon rode to the palace, where, to his relief, he heard that the bishop was in residence. His request for audience was granted. Simon prefaced his news by mentioning that his father did not believe in meddling with matters that belonged to the Church. This was quite true, although Simon had to pause a moment to control unwelcome mirth when he recalled certain actions his mother and Joanna had taken in the past against priests who differed with them.
The pause was quite effective, although Simon had not intended it as a dramatic device. The bishop urged him on, assuring him that he would not be considered officious or interfering. Properly cued, Simon told his tale, and Roger of London was suitably horrified. Although he said nothing to Simon about his intentions, there was a steely glitter in his eyes and a certain rigidity of his lips and jaw that indicated to Simon that his mission had been a success. Robert of Salisbury, the bishop in whose See the violation had occurred, would have to take the initiative, but the saintly Roger of London would be there to back him up—and London had already won one passage-at-arms with the king.
Chapter Twenty
A few days passed without further developments, and then Ian’s letters began to come again. Robert of Salisbury had taken up the cudgels for Hubert de Burgh—or rather, for the privilege of the Church. First he had gone to the castellan of Devizes and ordered him to send Hubert back to the church. The castellan had pleaded various reasons for the actions of his men and, when these were rejected, said flatly that they had rather Hubert be hanged than they. Robert of Salisbury, no more inclined to accept this reason than the others, promptly excommunicated all the offenders and set out for Oxford, where he remonstrated with the king with only slightly less vehemence.
The king, leaving the Bishop of Winchester to argue with his brother prelate, fled to Westminster. Simon and Rhiannon had warning of this and also that Geoffrey thought it would be a nice touch if Rhiannon presented herself voluntarily with an offer to sing, since Winchester was not at court. To Simon’s delight—for a touch of jealousy had been roused in him by Rhiannon’s response to the king’s admiration—she was reluctant, although she admitted it would be the best thing to do. She felt more vulnerable in London, as if the wild countryside, which could shield her, was farther away and left her more at Henry’s mercy. Simon, too, said he thought it would be best, but he did not urge her beyond that simple statement. In the end Rhiannon’s conscience overrode her fear, and she agreed.
She hoped Henry would be too busy or too angry to accept the offer Simon delivered. The king, however, had a similarity to Rhiannon beyond his love of music; he also tried to run away from his problems. He was delighted with the suggestion and closed with it at once, sending the strongest assurances of his pleasure in her willingness to come to him. He greeted her with great kindness and even made a jesting reference to the necessary freedom of songbirds.
Nonetheless, Rhiannon felt choked and smothered, and she sang of the sorrows of the Rhiannon whose namesake she was, how the jealous women of her husband’s court accused her of murdering her babe and smeared her with a pup’s blood, and of the bitter sorrow and unmerited punishment she suffered until her husband’s long faith in her was vindicated when the truth was exposed.
By chance the song fitted Henry’s mood exactly, but for once he was as interested in the meaning under the tale as in the artistry with which it was told. “If Pwyll believed in her, he was a fool to yield to the demands of his barons,” Henry said, after he had complimented Rhiannon on her singing.
“He did not do so,” Rhiannon replied. “They bade him put her away, and he would not. It was for the sake of peace in the land and ease in the minds of his liegemen that he agreed to Rhiannon’s penance—and, remember, she agreed with him and did the penance, if not gladly, willingly for the sake of peace.”
“Peace is not everything,” Henry said, starting to look black.
“I am a woman,” Rhiannon murmured. “It is everything to me.”
The frown cleared from Henry’s face. “And that is as it should be. That is surely the woman’s part, to make peace.”
Rhiannon curtsied, as if in thanks for the king’s approval, but it was a signal to Simon, who came to her side and asked solicitously whether she was tired. It had been planned between them and worked well; Henry took the hint quickly, excusing them graciously from further attendance. As Rhiannon curtsied again, he took her hand.
“You will not run away again if I just say I hope you will sing for me soon, Lady Rhiannon?”
“I will not run away from you, my lord,” she assured him. “However, it is not a matter of my choice. My mother is alone. I must soon go home to make ready for the winter. It is a very hard time in the hills where we live. Sometimes the snow is so heavy that the hunters cannot go out and we are sealed into our dwellings. Much must be done in gathering stores to keep us over the worst months. But I promise I will come again, as soon as I can, and most gladly.”
“All the way from Wales, just to sing for me?” Henry asked, raising his brows.
“Yes,” Rhiannon said, “all the way from Wales to sing for you, my lord, for there are very few who listen as you do. You understand and appreciate my art. If you will receive me—disregarding how events may change in the future—I will come.”
“I will receive you at any time. Between us, in the name of art, there will always be peace,” Henry assured her, and it was quite plain that he understood her implications that there might be enmity between her father and himself. He had, almost openly, promised he would not blame her for what she had no power to change or control.
She and Simon got away after that, but Rhiannon’s hand was tight on his wrist until they were clear of the hall. Outside, Simon put his arm around her as they waited for their horses, and she did not pull away.
“I am not cut out for this work,” she sighed. “Gilliane was right. The king is like a wild cat. It may come to call and even let itself be gentled, but one cannot look away or trust it. With such a man, there must be strong bonds to hold him, for his own spirit is not master o
f itself.”
“Your father said it was because he was king too young,” Simon responded, but for the moment he was blessing Henry, whose erratic character had made Rhiannon willing to rest in his embrace.
“I want to go home,” Rhiannon said pathetically.
“Then you shall, eneit,” Simon agreed instantly. “I will write to my father tonight, and we will go tomorrow.”
“No,” she sighed. “It will not do. It would turn everything I said into a lie. We must stay until the Bishop of Winchester comes, at least. Simon, you should not yield so readily to anything I ask.”
“I love you.”
Whether she would have replied at all and what she would have said remained forever lost. The horses arrived at that moment, and Rhiannon pulled away from Simon and moved forward at once to mount. Simon was furious, but to punish the grooms would have offended Rhiannon. It was better to let the opportunity go than to destroy by ill temper the good that had been accomplished already.
There was no need for Rhiannon to fear another summons from the king, for a powerful diversion was provided to turn Henry’s mind from light entertainment. The Bishop of Salisbury, more knowing than Henry had hoped, did not stay to argue with Peter des Roches. Warned that Henry had left Oxford, he never went near his fellow prelate—who might not have been above laying hands upon him—but followed the king to London and was welcomed warmly by Roger of London. Reinforced by that saintly man’s approval—and determination—he again fronted the king.
Henry squirmed and protested that what was done was his right. Restraining his temper, Robert of Salisbury reasoned gently but with total inflexibility; Hubert de Burgh must be returned to the church from which he was taken. Sanctuary was inviolable for anyone. Even the blackest criminal, the bloodiest murderer, was sacred when under the protection of the Church and could not be returned to prison or executed as long as he remained on holy ground.
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