But had she chosen it? Did Kicva have any more freedom of choice than Rhiannon herself had? The question sent chills up and down Rhiannon as she understood it. She would never know whether Kicva’s choice had been made freely—the Christian faith said there was free will for man—but she realized finally that she herself had no choice. Whether or not she hid herself from Simon, she cared what happened to him—and not only to him, but to all of them. She was already caught in the spider web of love relationships, and there was no way to break free. She could die struggling, hating herself for trying to avoid all bonds of love, or she could accept her silken prison together with its comforts and its joys and the occasional pains of its manacles.
The lambs stirred gently, baaed sleepily; their fleeces smelled oily-sweet. The last time Rhiannon had pillowed her head on unwashed fleeces with so strong an odor was in the shepherd’s hut where she and Simon had taken refuge to make love on a rainy day. Desire washed over Rhiannon, and a storm of violent tears swept her into exhausted sleep when she had cried herself out.
Math was snuggled to her side when she woke. She met his large, passionless eyes, so like her own in appearance but much closer to her mother’s in expression. Math did not need her, she knew. He hunted for himself and found warmth enough. Yet he went with her to places he did not like in a conveyance he loathed because he loved her. With that, he was also free—sometimes. Her lips twitched.
“So you have forgiven me, Math, have you? Well, I am glad. I have forgiven myself also. Now, since you are so wise, how will I explain this to Simon and manage to keep a rag of my pride? I cannot, after all, simply appear curled up in his bed. He will ask why, and I cannot just stare coldly at him as you do at me.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kicva’s messenger was in Builth on November third, but Llewelyn had not yet arrived. He came on the fourth, only there was such a press of business that he could not worry about the peculiarities of his daughter. On the fifth, the Earl of Pembroke arrived, and Llewelyn was still busier so that he completely forgot Kicva’s letter. That evening, when he called Simon over for a few words, he noticed that the young man was looking rather fine-drawn. That reminded him, but he said nothing to Simon in case Kicva’s news was bad.
When he was free, he read the letter and cursed luridly. If he had read it when he first saw it, he could have sent for Rhiannon to entertain the earl while Pembroke was a guest at Builth. In truth, he doubted that Pembroke would care for or understand Rhiannon’s singing. The earl was not given to the arts, except those of war, and what he knew of singing were delicate ditties in the French mode. However, it would have been an excellent excuse.
Llewelyn tapped his teeth with a finger. Why should he feel it was too late? It was still an excellent excuse. It was perfectly logical that, having now met Pembroke personally and liking him for himself, Llewelyn would offer to him the greatest delicacy he had—his daughter Rhiannon’s singing. Yes, and it could do no harm if Pembroke thought he was not perceptive enough to realize that Welsh folk tales would not be the most appropriate entertainment to offer a French-oriented Marcher lord. The choice would underline Llewelyn’s intense pride in his heritage as well as imply that he did not understand his guest very well. Good!
The letter to Kicva was written before Llewelyn sought his bed, and the messenger was sent out with instructions that it be delivered with more than usual haste. Then Llewelyn dismissed both Simon and Rhiannon from his mind. He had more serious matters to consider than a love affair, particularly since he now had good reason to assume it would come to the conclusion he desired.
Reports came in every day. Henry and his army were still at Gloucester. As long as they remained there, Pembroke could afford to stay at Builth, discussing what moves he was willing to make and what he could provide for offense and defense. Llewelyn could put forward his proposals and detail what he would do to support them. The Welsh prince was inwardly irritated by Pembroke’s excessive sense of honor; he called it not knowing on which side of the bread the butter was spread. However, it had its advantages, too. Once bound, Richard would stay that way; so Llewelyn concealed his impatience with this exaggerated nicety and spoke of many plans as contingent when he was certain from long experience that they would have to be used.
On the ninth of November, news came that Henry and his army had begun moving north. Pembroke sent out word that his men should assemble at Abergavenny, which would put him sixteen miles from Monmouth—a royal stronghold—and twenty-four miles from Hereford—another keep and town loyal to Henry—or, at least, not openly rebels. Both passages were easy, a day’s travel or less for Pembroke’s troops so that they could counter any move westward the king might make.
Llewelyn assured Pembroke there was no need for him to leave to join his army yet. Welsh scouts would bring in news of Henry’s movements every few hours. Although he would not admit that he did not trust the wily Welsh leader, Richard could not eliminate all his doubts. He found a solution to his dilemma by asking that Simon be in charge of the scouting parties. Despite the fact that Simon was Llewelyn’s vassal, Richard was certain his dead brother’s squire would do nothing to harm him.
It did not take much perception for Llewelyn to understand the request. He was mildly irritated again because he had wanted Simon to be at Builth when Rhiannon came. However, that was certainly not important enough to increase or confirm Pembroke’s suspicions. Rhiannon would simply have to wait. She would be perfectly safe at Builth until this action was over. Llewelyn not only sent Simon out but asked Pembroke to give him his instructions, since only Pembroke knew how much warning he would need to join his men and get them in action.
Simon was delighted to go. He still knew nothing about Kicva’s letter or Llewelyn’s answer to it. In Llewelyn’s opinion, to expect a reconciliation with one’s love from moment to moment was no way to make that reconciliation proceed smoothly. Rhiannon would come; Kicva was never wrong, but whether she would come flashing down from the mountain like a bird or ride slowly over the roads with an escort and baggage, Llewelyn could not guess. He wanted Simon’s mind on what he was doing, which was mixing with Pembroke’s men so that Llewelyn could know what Richard’s supporters thought and how close their ties were to Pembroke.
There had been nothing new to learn on that score, however. Simon had told Llewelyn all he could days before, and he was bored with trying to keep the peace between the northern and southern Welsh and the English-Norman contingents. He had not been sleeping well, and although he had twice wandered through the section where the camp followers plied their trade, he had come away without relieving his needs. And his feelings about Rhiannon still seesawed from hope to despair and back again. Llewelyn’s order and Pembroke’s instructions were the answers to his prayers. Simon had gathered his men and was away before anyone could change his mind.
Kicva’s hunter returned to Angharad’s Hall with Llewelyn’s letter just after the ladies had broken their fast, about two hours before Simon set off to watch the movements of the king’s army. He apologized for being slow. The fine weather had broken with a heavy fall of rain, which had overfilled several small rivers, making the usual fords useless. Kicva smiled. She knew about the fall of rain. It had imprisoned Rhiannon in the house, so that instead of examining her fears in the soft melancholy of the autumn forest and healing herself in silence, Rhiannon had worked them out on her harp. She had produced her first original song, not a translation or a distillation of an old story or her grandfather’s work, but her own tale and melody—and it was good, the equal, Kicva thought, to Gwydyon’s work.
When she had played it through complete, Rhiannon had looked at her mother in dazed amazement. “That is my pain,” she whispered, “and it is beautiful.”
“Yes, Daughter. Did you think the songs Gwydyon wove came from a dead, untouched heart? They, too, were leached out of blood and agony. It changes, too, you know. Not now, perhaps not even soon, but it will breed more songs.”
&nbs
p; Less rebellious than she had been for nearly a year, Rhiannon accepted that. She did not strain to make more music and only used her harp for her customary practice. She was not ill-humored, but she was restless. It was not only that she wished to go to Simon so that she could think of him as happy rather than hurt and wondering, nor that she wanted to know what he was doing so that her anxiety would pinch and prick her less. Those just added to her general sense that she must be up and doing something—anything.
Needless to say, Llewelyn’s command was greeted with cries of enthusiasm. Rhiannon did cast one single suspicious glance at her mother as she went to pack, but then she told herself severely that she did not care whether Kicva and Llewelyn had planned this to manage her. She wanted to go. She would not cut off her nose to spite her face. Her laughter trilled like bird song when she thought of “Simon’s words”, and Math came and rubbed against her legs. Then to her blank amazement he went and sat beside the padded basket in which he traveled.
Rhiannon paused in her packing, sat back on her heels, and stared at him. “I do not think you should go,” she said. “We will be in a keep, and you hate that. Also, we may have to move several times.”
There were occasions when Rhiannon almost expected to get an answer from Math. She never did—except in the way things worked out. All he did was stare back at her with his clear, pale eyes, the pupils down to slits. Rhiannon thought briefly of trying to imprison him when they left. Unlike dogs, cats hunted by eye and could not follow a trail. Then she shrugged. If Math wanted to go, why should he not? She would be glad to have him when the men moved on while she had to wait to know where they would stop before she could follow.
A faint chill washed over her as she focused on her own thought. For the first time she understood what she intended to do. Not that she was shocked by the idea that she intended to follow Simon wherever he went, but Simon might be. Then another thrill passed up and down her spine. How had Math known she did not intend to return to Angharad’s Hall until Simon came with her? Rhiannon shook the thought away. If Math was more than a large, beautiful cat, he meant well for her and for Simon. It was as unwise to look too closely into the kindly doings of the old gods as it was to look at the teeth of a gift-horse.
An hour after the messenger arrived, Rhiannon was mounted and ready to leave. Four men—strong, devoted, clever, and fierce—rode with her, and in spite of the horses they did not take the roads. Still, even as a bird flies, it was more than seventy miles from Angharad’s Hall to Builth, and birds do not have to backtrack to avoid chasms or to ford rivers or to pick their way along goat trails over precipitous mountains, Rhiannon might have ridden through the night if the ground was reasonable, but even she was not so eager as to try to ford an overfull river that sounded angry in the dark.
Simon settled down to catch some sleep at just about the same time Rhiannon did. He had had a pleasant and satisfactory day. He had established most of his troop and all the horses on Orcop Hill while small detachments, including himself, scouted west and south on foot. Pembroke had told the truth when he said there was nothing left for the king’s army around Clifford and southeast of Hereford. You could tell which lands were beholden to which side. Pembroke’s were stripped bare, but neatly and cleanly. Hereford’s were blackened, and one could smell the dead serfs as one passed.
There had been no sign of the king’s army yet, except one patrol, and they had seemed more interested in forage than in the terrain. That was an interesting piece of information; it might mean that Gloucester had not been very generous with provender. The men beholden to Gloucester could not be open rebels; their youthful overlord was now with his stepfather, Richard of Cornwall, and his mother—who was Pembroke’s sister. They could, however, do their best not to help, by concealing their stock, by pleading the effect of a murrain or a bad harvest. They could also say that Henry had already levied on them in August, and they had no more to give.
If that was true, the king’s army was already short of supplies. Henry could not, then, strike due west because he already knew that Usk and the surrounding area were naked as a newborn babe. But the scouts would tell him that there was nothing around Hereford either. It could mean that Henry would do nothing until supplies could be gathered from England. That did not please Simon, and he turned restlessly and then rerolled himself in his blanket and cloak. As warmth seeped into him, he smiled. Henry was in a terrible rage, and patience had never been one of his virtues, even when he was not angry.
On that pleasant thought Simon slept. He woke easily at a touch some hours later. The troop ate pressed cakes of flaked, dried meat, dried fruit, and meal, passed around a small wineskin that one of the men had been carrying, and set out again. They found the army before dawn. Henry’s force was camped amid the burned-out farms midway between Gloucester and Hereford. As the sun came up, the army began to stir. Simon and his men squatted in the cover of a grove of trees and watched, finishing their sleep by turns.
The sights and sounds were familiar, men waking each other, crying out for one reason or another, cooking pots clanging, grooms shouting and cursing at their charges as they fed them or prepared to lead them to water. After a while, the camp quieted somewhat while the men ate. Then the bedlam began again and even increased. Simon breathed a sigh of relief. The army was going to move. He watched a little longer, until he saw some handsomely caparisoned horses being led toward the largest tent on the field. Then he gestured Echtor closer.
“I will take four men and follow the royal party. You follow the army with the rest of the men—three for the head, three for the rear guard. When they settle for the night, we will meet at Orcop Hill. If they should not stop but strike west toward Wales, send two men to Builth—or to the nearest of Prince Llewelyn’s men they can find—with as much information as you can glean about their intentions.”
The next few hours were quite exhausting. There was no keeping up with the horses, of course, but Simon and his men found where Henry and his companions had turned off the road and were then able to follow their trail, which led due west to the Wye. They had ridden along the river, apparently having the escort test places that looked fordable. The heavy rains of the preceding week had filled the river, however. A man might swim it, as could horses, but for the baggage wains there was no passage except the one near Hereford.
Simon rejoiced at the persistence in looking for a crossing. Apparently Henry intended to move his army west, which could only mean he planned an attack. Owing to the care with which the river had been examined, Simon had caught up with the party just before they reached Hereford. He saw Henry and the leaders enter the town while the escort turned back. Simon did not bother to wait for the royal party to emerge or to follow the escort. He returned to the camp on Orcop Hill and sent out Siorl and six of the men, who had lounged away the two days watching an empty pass, to watch instead the roads leading north and west from Hereford.
At midafternoon Echtor sent a messenger to say that the vanguard of the army had reached Hereford, crossed the Wye, and turned south again. Simon found this very interesting and went north himself with the man Echtor had sent. By the time he arrived, it was certain that the group turning south was no mere work party or scavenging expedition. Simon clicked his tongue against his teeth in disapproval. If the king and his mercenary leaders had learned anything from their experiences in August, it was not much. There were a few outriders at the front of the column to give warning in case a large body of enemy should appear, but that was all. They would be as easy to rout as ants.
The baggage train was not yet in sight, but in his mind Simon was already counting its worth. He told Echtor to wait for it and send him word of how it was guarded and whatever he could determine of its contents. As they were speaking, the king and his nobles and mercenary captains rode down through the marching men and on toward the south. Simon sent two men after them, but without much hope. If they remained on the road, they would soon outdistance their followers, and there
would be no way to tell which side road they turned off on, if they turned off at all. However, Simon was not much worried. Presumably the army would end up wherever the royal party was going.
He did not have to wait that long to find out, however. By evening one of the men was back with the news that the king and his party had entered Grosmount. He had struck it lucky on a shortcut he had taken, coming up on a rise of land quite a distance behind but not so far he could not recognize the colors of the men entering the keep.
This was news of real moment. The area around Grosmount had not been attacked by Pembroke. There was a concentration of castles from Monmouth in the south to Grosmount in the north, all in the control of Poitevins. It had made the area too dangerous for Pembroke to raid seriously, and there were probably supplies for the army there. Simon did not think Henry had pressed the Poitevins hard during the preceding campaign. Now they would have to victual his army—and that would mean a stay of a day or two, surely time enough for Llewelyn to mount a surprise attack that might be very profitable indeed. Simon went to watch Grosmount himself, taking his horse.
To Ymlladd, twenty miles was nothing. As soon as Simon was sure the army was settling down in the fields surrounding the keep at Grosmount, he set out for Builth. Shortly after compline he was reporting to Pembroke and Llewelyn. Fortunately, neither of them had yet been asleep, and those other leaders who were, were roused as soon as the significance of Simon’s news was understood. There was an avaricious glitter in Llewelyn’s eyes and trouble in Pembroke’s by the time Simon had emptied his budget.
“I do not wish to attack without provocation,” Pembroke began.
“I do.” Llewelyn’s voice cut off any further protest. “This is an opportunity to do us much good and the king’s forces much harm with little bloodshed. If you will not come in your own person, so be it. Let the blame fall on me. However, you have just made an agreement to prosecute a war—”
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