Actually, Sir Roger was not completely lost. When they came to Henley they finally obtained directions Sir Roger felt he could trust. It was past dinnertime by then, and he and his troop had not yet broken their fast. Although he said nothing to his men, Sir Roger blamed Winchester. Had he not been so impatient, they would have waited until dawn to leave, and none of this would have happened. The resentment Sir Roger felt impelled him to give permission for his men to stop and rest, buy food, and eat. Winchester would never know, and he himself was hungry and thirsty. While he ate and refreshed himself with a few draughts of the best wine, he considered his information. They were north of their objective. They could go south crosscountry… No, Sir Roger had had enough of that.
Sensitized by past experience, Sir Roger stopped often to ask the route, which further slowed their progress. It was not until the late afternoon that they reached Newbury. There, everyone knew Kingsclere keep, and Sir Roger was able to discover how far it was in nearly exact terms. They forded the Enborn, then followed its southern bank to a meadow surrounded by a small wood where the troop camped for the night. Sir Roger rode the last three miles alone, arriving just at dusk and thanking God that he could spend this night, at least, in a comfortable bed.
That cheerful thought flew right out of his head to be replaced by a burgeoning joy when he discovered that Rhiannon was actually still in Kingsclere and that Simon and the castellan were away. In moments his plan was revised. There would be no need to use force of any kind. If he could induce Rhiannon to come with him, he could send back a message that would bring Simon alone and unarmed right into his arms.
Success seemed to grow from good fortune. Although Rhiannon was clearly amazed and somewhat frightened when he first delivered his message—that she was urgently desired to return to the king, who wished her to carry messages to her father for him—his glib explanations about the change in the political situation seemed rapidly to dissipate her surprise and alarm. The matter was of grave importance, he said, and could not wait. It was unfortunate that Sir Simon should be away, but if she would trust herself to him with three or four men-at-arms from the castle for protection, Sir Simon could easily catch up with them before they reached London.
Rhiannon listened with downcast eyes, thinking quickly. It was possible that what Sir Roger said was true. Even though her last exchange with Henry implied that he did not regard her as a political person, that did not preclude the possibility of his wishing to send a message to Llewelyn by her. However, there were too many sour notes in Sir Roger’s litany. One was the excessive need for speed. Why? Simon said it would be some weeks before an army could be assembled, and he was in no particular hurry to get back to Wales.
There was another false note. “How did the king know where to send you?” Rhiannon asked.
“Lord Ian told us you were going to Kingsclere.”
“Lord Ian,” Rhiannon echoed. If Ian knew, then it was certainly necessary for her to go, Rhiannon thought. “Yes, I will come,” she said, “but it is ridiculous for Simon to follow us. He will be here tomorrow, and I can ride as fast as any man.”
“But we must start at once,” Sir Roger insisted.
“No!” Sir Henry cried. “It is dark. You cannot ride all night, my dear. You will be cold and wet. It is raining. Wait for Simon. He knows these lands and can take you cross country to save time.”
“You know nothing of the king’s needs, old man,” Sir Roger snapped harshly. “Hold your tongue!”
Rhiannon had almost been swept away by the man’s urgency, but the way Sir Henry shrank from the lash in his voice enraged her. Then two realizations occurred to her simultaneously. The first was that what Sir Henry said was true. Simon could save them more time than could be gained by riding on a black, wet night. The second was that she had not the slightest interest in preventing her father from joining forces with Pembroke. It was what Simon wanted him to do, and, from all she had learned, it was probably the best thing for him to do. Regardless of the king’s hurry, then, she was in no hurry. She patted Sir Henry’s hand.
“No, I will not go tonight. I have no intention of stumbling around in the dark when it rains and there is not even a moon to guide us.”
“The king will be ill-pleased by this delay,” Sir Roger said threateningly.
Rhiannon’s large eyes, clear as glass and as hard, fixed on him. “He is not my king,” she said succinctly. “He is asking a service of me, not I of him. I will do it when I choose, or not at all.”
Realizing he had trod amiss, Sir Roger began to apologize and excuse himself, trying to induce her to go by saying he would be blamed if they delayed. It was doubtful that Rhiannon would have been moved, even if she heard a word he said, but she did not. Although her eyes remained fixed on him, another discrepancy had occurred to her. If Ian knew a messenger had been sent to her from the king, he would surely have written a letter either to her or to Simon urging her to go—if he had wanted her to go. Then, either it was a lie that Ian had told Sir Roger where to find them, or, more likely, Ian did not want her to go. Something began to stink to high heaven. Still, Rhiannon was not sufficiently sure of herself to refuse outright.
“I am very sorry,” she said, vaguely aware of the self-pitying arguments Sir Roger was urging on her. “Nonetheless, I will not go tonight.”
From the corner of her eye, Rhiannon saw that Sir Henry was very much upset. The old man was trembling and plucking uneasily at his tunic with his crippled fingers. Rhiannon wished to calm him, but the pestiferous Sir Roger was talking again. Apparently he had given up on the notion of leaving that night. Now he was insisting that they go at dawn. Rhiannon was tempted to tell him that if he did not shut his mouth, she would not go at all, when she suddenly bethought herself that she could shut his mouth without his knowing anything about it.
“Yes, yes,” she agreed smiling blandly, “we will go as soon as you are ready tomorrow. Now allow me to fetch you some wine to refresh you while we wait for the evening meal to be brought.”
Enormously relieved, Sir Roger thanked her fulsomely. They would be well away, he thought, long before Simon returned from the visit he was making. And once Rhiannon was a hostage among his men, the time factor was no longer important. He was so satisfied with his accomplishment that he did not stop to wonder why Lady Rhiannon should fetch wine for him herself rather than signal for a maid to bring it.
As she poured sufficient sleeping draught into the cup to lay out a horse and laced it with usquebaugh to hide the taste, Rhiannon also smiled with satisfaction. This was much better. She could blame any delay on Sir Roger himself, and she certainly would not leave before Simon came. Since it was his family that would suffer if she did the wrong thing, he must make the decision.
Sir Henry was very much surprised, and quite pleased, when the offensive messenger dropped asleep right in the middle of a lofty sentence before the evening meal was served. Rhiannon said, with twitching lips, that he must have been very tired from his long ride. She summoned two hefty menservants and instructed them to carry Sir Roger to bed in one of the wall chambers. When he was gone, Sir Henry commented that Sir Roger must be an idle popinjay to be so tired from a little ride. Then he became embarrassed and said he imagined Rhiannon must be sorry.
“I am sure you would rather listen to his talk of the Court—”
“I certainly would not!” she exclaimed. “I prefer greatly to listen to you.”
“That is very kind, my dear, very kind, even if I know it is not true. I was never very—very clever at talk.”
“Sir Henry, if you were mute as a wooden board, I would prefer to sit with you in silence than to listen to that self-important fool.”
The old man smiled. “Is he? I thought so, but… So much the more I wish you would not go with him without Simon, even if the king is not pleased.”
“Oh, I am sure that will not be necessary. He is so tired, you see. I only said I would go when he was ready. He will sleep long tomorrow. We w
ill not allow anyone to disturb him. Simon will be here before he wakes.”
“How clever you are, my dear. Yes, yes. Bid the men close the door. It will be so dark in that wall chamber, he will never know night from day, and no sound will wake him either. How clever you are.”
Rhiannon thought so too, and they laughed together in amity and played a pleasant game of draughts with much silliness and little skill on either side. She felt even cleverer midmorning of the next day when Simon and Sir Harold arrived, breathless with anxiety, with their horses all in alather. Having settled the hunting problem to everyone’s satisfaction, they had ridden up to the priory south of Newbury to discuss obtaining a chaplain for Kingsclere. Sir Harold had been reluctant to make the arrangement on his own for fear of hurting Sir Henry. The old chaplain wished very much to return to the monastery for his remaining years, and Sir Harold felt he needed a younger man, but neither had wished to tell Sir Henry. Simon agreed that Rhiannon would probably be able to break this news gently.
On their way back to Kingsclere, they had seen signs of the passage of a large troop of men. Careful investigation had brought them to the camp where Sir Roger’s men waited. The master-at-arms knew of no reason to conceal from Sir Harold the little bit he had been told and said they were waiting to accompany Sir Roger de Cantelupe, who had been sent on an errand by the Bishop of Winchester. Sir Roger had ridden ahead to Kingsclere, and that was all the master-at-arms knew.
Since the camp and men were orderly, Sir Harold made no objection to their remaining where they were. He rode back to where Simon was waiting—to bring help in case the troop was hostile—thanking God that he did not have to deal with whatever Winchester’s messenger wanted by himself. It was not until he saw the horror on Simon’s face that he guessed Sir Roger might have a purpose connected with his guests rather than with himself or his keep.
Simon’s mind moved swiftly, and although they rode at full gallop, the three miles to Kingsclere seemed the longest distance Simon had even ridden. He had started by thinking of rape and murder and imagined other, ever-increasing horrors, which even a whole army would have had difficulty accomplishing in one night, before they arrived. The smiling, casual greetings of guards and servants restored his perspective, and he realized he should have trusted Rhiannon not to do anything hasty or foolish. Thus, he came into the hall with an expression of bland interest and welcome, but only Rhiannon rose to greet him from her chair beside Sir Henry’s.
Simon looked around, and Rhiannon hurried forward. “You know we have a guest?” she asked.
“Where is he?” Simon wanted to know.
Rhiannon laughed. “Asleep. And he will stay that way until we decide what our answer to him should be.”
“Answer to what?”
“He says the king desires me to carry messages to my father—”
“The king! There is a small army a few miles up the road whose master-at-arms told Sir Harold that Sir Roger is on an errand for the Bishop of Winchester.”
Rhiannon’s eyes opened wide with amazement. “Oh, the clever liar!” she breathed. “He bade me take three or four men-at-arms from the keep for protection and ride away with him at once. I almost believed him because he said your father had told him where we were.”
“My father!” Simon was shocked, but then realized that Ian would not have expected them to stay so long, particularly if he had hinted about de Burgh… But that was not important now. Simon dismissed it from his mind as he considered the present problem. He tried several interpretations but only one seemed at all reasonable.
“Winchester did mean to take you hostage, Rhiannon,” he said finally. “The troop he sent is large enough—to his mind anyway—to overpower my Welsh. Probably he intended to take me, too, and make Mama and Papa and the others dance on a string to his tugging. I wonder whether the king knows of this.”
“I do not think so, Simon,” Rhiannon said slowly. “Partly it is because he—he is an artist and respects that in me. Truly, he would not wish to still my song by confinement. But also, I think King Henry knows my father too well to believe holding me would do any good. He knows Llewelyn would only turn vicious. Winchester thinks like—like—”
“An ignorant Frenchman. Yes. Very likely you are right, but it does not help, really. If the king does not know, Winchester will keep the secret as long as he can and then convince Henry that letting us go would be more dangerous than holding us longer.” Rhiannon shuddered, and he put his arm around her. “They would do us no harm. I am sure of that.”
Her eyes had a wild look when they turned up to his. “To be caged like an animal would do me no harm? I would go mad!”
“I would not like it much either,” Simon agreed. “But since there is no longer any chance of such a happening, do not think of it and frighten yourself with shadows. All I need to decide is how we can leave behind the greatest amount of confusion in Sir Roger’s mind and the least amount of blame for Sir Harold.”
“Sir Harold knows nothing about this—do you, Sir Harold?” Rhiannon asked, smiling sweetly.
“Certainly not!” Sir Harold replied promptly.
“When Sir Roger wakes, which should be around dinnertime, you may tell him that I could not get him up in the morning, that he bade me go away.” This was the truth. Rhiannon had stirred Sir Roger just enough to pour some more sleeping draught down his throat. He had certainly told her to go away. “Since he had made so great a point of the king’s hurry, as soon as Simon returned we—we left to go to Westminster.”
Simon burst out laughing and clapped Rhiannon on the back so heartily that she staggered forward a few steps. Then he caught her and hugged her. “I am sorry, my love, I did not mean to hit you so hard, but what a thought! What a beautiful thought!”
“Is it safe?” Sir Harold asked, and then when Simon opened his mouth to explain, he held up his hand. “I am no good as a liar. Tell me no more, I beg you, but, if you wish to stay here, you are very welcome. Sir Roger could be put out, and no one would dare use open force to take you.”
“I am not so sure of that,” Simon remarked. “There may soon be no law aside from the king’s word—or perhaps Winchester’s. But that is not all my reason. If we go, you and my father and my mother are innocent. When it is possible to accomplish the same end without them, insult and defiance should be avoided,” he ended sententiously.
Rhiannon looked at him in such patent amazement and disbelief that both men laughed.
“Besides,” Simon went on, his eyes gleaming, “it is much more fun this way.”
“For you,” Sir Harold said dryly, “but it will be too much exertion for Lady Rhiannon. If you go, I can say she went also. That much lying I will contrive to do. She can stay safe and quiet in the women’s quarters until—”
Both Simon and Rhiannon interrupted him with laughter. She put her hand on his arm. “I thank you for your consideration, but I can ride as long and hard as Simon, and can outrun him also.”
“You cannot!” Simon exclaimed. “On the flat I outdistance you two times out of three. It is only when leaping up mountains like a goat that you outpace me. We are a match!”
Rhiannon’s breath caught. They were a match! But if she yielded to what Simon desired, they would become one. Half an apple could not live without the other half. Desperate not to answer, Rhiannon’s eyes went past Simon and saw Sir Henry watching them with pitiful anxiety.
“I must explain to the old man,” she said softly. “He knows we must go. I have explained that already, but this long conference is frightening him.”
“Yes, of course. I will go see to the men and to the horses while you start the packing and explain to him. Then I will come back and say farewell before we leave. Oh, and Rhiannon, could you tell him gently that a new chaplain is coming? Brother Michael is too old and not well. He is to return to the priory.”
“Good. That will divert his mind from our leaving and give him something to look forward to. You told the abbot, I hope, tha
t whoever comes must be ready to spend much time comforting an old man—and not affright him with hell and damnation, either.”
“I will see to it,” Sir Harold promised, his face lightening. He had not realized that his responsibility to Sir Henry’s loneliness would be solved so easily.
As they were crossing the drawbridge several hours later, Rhiannon said, “That was most fortunate. Sir Henry is so eager to tell the new chaplain just how things are to be done and who is pious and who a sinner that he was easily reconciled to our leaving. He is sorry to lose Brother Michael, but… What is it, Simon? Is there more danger than you wished to mention in Sir Harold’s presence?”
“No. I am just trying to decide which way to go. Naturally, I do not wish to pass Sir Roger’s men, but that is easy enough to avoid.” He paused and his lips tightened. “I am really very annoyed with Winchester—and with the king, too, if he is a party to this. They need their hands sharply slapped for reaching out to grasp that to which they have no right. Yet if I bring you home to Wales first, it may be too late.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That I would like to spite Winchester, and the king, too, by snatching Hubert de Burgh out of the church where he is, no doubt, slowly starving to death.”
Rhiannon’s green eyes opened wide. Then she giggled. “I think we should. My father might not agree. I do not believe he has forgiven de Burgh for that execution of hostages two years ago, but he will be even angrier at Winchester when he hears there was a plan to seize me. Or we could say nothing about it to him.” Then she frowned. “But can we do it, Simon?”
“We?” he repeated.
She shrugged. “There is no place to leave me, and as you said, he will be back in prison or dead if you ride into Wales first. What I meant was, where will you take him when we have him out? I do not think he would be welcome on my father’s lands.”
Rhiannon Page 33
