Crown of Passion

by Jocelyn Carew

  But then, he thought, with returning optimism, perhaps Gwyn could be beguiled — and not forced. The prospect kept him company while Countess Maud brought forward her son Brian — a sullen, reedy lad — and the other royal ward in her care.

  Jeanne de Guilbert, at Maud’s bidding, curtsied before Prince Henry. “Quite a young miss, she is,” said Maud with pride, “and already betrothed by the king’s command to Reginald FitzOmer.”

  “FitzOmer!” The exclamation was jolted out of their royal guest. “You must be mistaken. Even —” His lips clamped shut to prevent his tongue from indiscretion. The child was only — six? — certainly no more, while FitzOmer was a hardened, battle-scarred soldier old enough to be her grandfather. Besides, Henry had heard certain unsavory rumors about his conduct.

  What could brother William be thinking of? Henry wondered, but only for a moment. There was one mainspring that moved the king, Henry knew, when no other consideration touched him — greed. The prince wondered how much FitzOmer had paid for the miniature heiress.

  Jeanne was leaning against the prince’s knee, looking earnestly into his face. Henry put his arm loosely around her waist and tried to draw her closer, but a quick shadow crossed the sweet-natured face and she stiffened slightly. Henry removed his arm casually, but very promptly. “When is your wedding to take place?” His voice was kindness itself.

  “Oh, sir, not until I am grown. My betrothed, you see, must go to the Holy Land to rescue the sepulcher from the pagan, and then he will come back and take me to his castles. And I shall have fine new clothes, with sable trimming, and a red sendal cloak for the summertime, you know, and many jewels. I shall be very happy.”

  Henry could only say, gently, “I wish you will.” If his expression lacked honesty, no one noticed, for at this moment Gwynllion Ramsey came down the stairs, and Henry, at the sight of her, caught his breath.

  She was lovely, he thought, with a fine regal air. Her slender figure was clad in green, the color of new leaves in spring, with white fur at the hem of her outer pelisse and a broad gold mesh belt, studded with jewels, confining her slim waist. Her hair was caught up in gold mesh, and the dark curls escaped only in tendrils at her forehead.

  But it was her eyes, the haughty gaze in those enormous green eyes, that turned his heart over. But the haughtiness turned to mischief as she recognized the effect she had upon the king’s brother.

  He stepped forward to offer his hand to help her down the last step. “A veritable princess,” he breathed, as she placed her fingertips delicately upon his arm, feeling the woolen sleeve of his chemise beneath her touch, the hard muscle warm and alive beneath the wool.

  “My mother was, you know,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  “In Wales,” said Henry.

  “Naturally,” she answered. “A lovely country, from what my mother always told me. I should like to see it, myself.”

  “How came she to marry the Baron Ramsey?” Henry queried.

  Countess Maud added, “I never knew either of your parents, Gwyn, but I confess I have often wondered. Did he win her in battle?”

  Gwyn’s laugh was a musical cascade. Henry’s eyes were fixed on her, and unconsciously she grew more confident under his approving regard. “Yes, in a way, Countess. Her brother had been captured — in a foray over the border with Madog ap Rhiryd — and my father held him to ransom. My mother traveled the mountains from Port Madoc to bring the money for the ransom, and — that’s the way it happened.”

  The dinner progressed, and Henry put himself out to be charming. Maud responded slowly, torn between her anxiety over this unaccustomed meeting between her charge and Prince Henry, and the prince’s surprising good humor, and her worry over Brian. Her son — more of a milksop than a man! — sat like a lump of dough (she thought) at the board, watching Henry with sullen eyes and turning away Gwyn’s remarks with an ill-tempered short retort.

  Brian, Maud knew, had more of a feeling for Gwyn than she quite liked. Brian must not be caught between Prince Henry, or even the king, and whatever the Norman rulers decreed. She pondered for the first time upon the wisdom of keeping him here. Perhaps a journey to their estates in Normandy would be best.

  “But I doubt I can get to Port Madoc,” Gwyn was saying. “For the king wishes to arrange my marriage. I do not quite like the idea. I am used to thinking for myself, you know, for my mother died when I was quite young and my father was gone much.”

  “And you had to manage your manor?” said Henry, with growing respect. He knew how hard it must have been for this slip of a girl, her father away, to direct a horde of Saxon serfs, provide for their welfare, get the crops out and harvested, stored against the bitter months ahead.

  The lady of the manor, too, must distribute the herbs and spices daily, for the condiments were too expensive to waste. She must see to the spinning and the weaving, the bleaching of linen and distribution of the rough-spun garments to her household servants, for custom dictated the exact amount of clothing each was to receive in a year. She must make the house ready to receive guests — who always came with gargantuan appetites and a horde of retainers. The prosperity of the lord depended upon the good management of his lady — and Henry knew that the Ramsey wealth was more than ordinary.

  “Gwyn can do anything,” Jeanne piped up. It was growing late, and she was very sleepy, but she had had the beginnings of a good bringing-up, and she had been taught she must contribute to the conversation. “I hope that the king gets her someone nice. He did well for me, you know. I shall be very happy.”

  Her yawn surprised her, and Maud nodded to Aedythe, the maid standing behind the girl. “Time for bed, Jeanne,” said Maud, her deep voice softening. After Jeanne had made her curtsies and disappeared up the stairs, Maud said, “The child has not even met FitzOmer yet. He’s been too busy. But — she has her ideas.”

  Henry, deliberately, changed the subject. “I wonder that you have not had trouble here. It seems to me that these walls are mere sticks of wood standing up to frighten hares.”

  “It isn’t the most secure place in the world,” admitted Maud. “I know what a stronghold ought to be, you know. I was brought up at Argenton. But what have we here to fear? The king is not far away.”

  “And the king’s men,” said Gwyn sharply.

  “Still brooding?” said Henry softly. “I must take care of that. Although I should like to see the defense you might mount, were the safety of the lodge to be threatened!”

  Gwyn smiled and said lightly, “You should not be ashamed of me in that regard. I know how to withstand a siege.”

  “And I, how to manage one,” grinned Henry wickedly.

  Brian, unfortunately, chose this moment to enter the conversation. “All this talk,” he flung out petulantly, “about warfare and sieges. That’s all anyone thinks of, battles and fighting.”

  Henry studied Brian du Pré. He was of slight build, hardly strong enough to lift a battle ax, and surely the lad could not carry a hundredweight of heavy armor. His fingers were long and slender, and none too clean, but they seemed designed for strumming a lute. The sallow skin, untouched by wind or sun, the long lashes lying lightly on the pale cheeks — Henry had seen many another like him, and not long in the past, either.

  Henry raised a heavy eyebrow. “What else? Battles are not to be sought, of course, but surely you would not let anyone take away what is yours?”

  “There should be an end to fighting,” Brian maintained stubbornly. He must have suspected that he was behaving badly, for he eyed his mother defiantly before dropping his glance to his silver wine goblet. Then he drained it at a gulp.

  The sewer came forward with a flagon, but catching Countess Maud’s eye, retreated without filling Brian’s cup again with the heavy spiced wine that had already played him false.

  “You have not yet won your spurs?” queried Henry.

  “No,” said Countess Maud sharply. “I sent him to Roches for training when he was twelve, as my dear husband wanted
me to, but — he came back.”

  “Perhaps,” said Henry easily, “he would be better fitted for the church.”

  “I will not allow it,” said Maud. “He has estates to hold, for you know he is my only heir, and he must win his spurs. I have told him this.” She threw a dark glance toward him. “And he will do it, you may count on that.”

  “You talk about me, both of you, as though I were not here.”

  “Might as well not be,” said his mother, “for all the sense you talk.”

  Brian half rose from the table but, meeting his mother’s blazing eyes, sank down again and passed a hand wearily over his forehead, which was damp with sweat.

  Henry’s thoughts were bleak. He had seen all too much of this kind of weakling, without the stomach for hard fighting, without the pride of keeping what was his. He sighed. “The wine has made you rash,” he said. “The night has grown late, and we will all be better to sit at table no longer.”

  Brian, still bemused by the wine fumes addling his brain, toyed with his goblet, scarcely noticing that it was empty. Suddenly, his face lit up as though a torch illumined it. “I have an idea! A new poem! Where’s my lute?” He scrambled to his feet without ceremony and ran to the chest against the wall. He rummaged vigorously in the contents, all the time muttering a few words over and over to himself. “A miracle swam the sweet milk sea … No, no, not a miracle — what is that word, Gwyn? Never mind, I remember, a coracle swam on a milk-white sea — Here’s my lute!”

  He retired to a corner and tentatively plucked a few notes, fitting the words to the music. For him, obviously, the others no longer existed.

  Henry rose to take his leave. Bending low over Maud’s hand, he thanked her for her entertainment, but when he came to Gwyn, he held her hand for a longer time. “We shall meet again,” he said with a smile.

  “Is this a warning?” she said pertly.

  “A promise,” he said, “that you may look forward to. With delight, I trust.”

  A short word to Brian and the Prince had gone. Gwyn climbed the stairs slowly, lost in her own thoughts, and heedless of Countess Maud’s grumbling about her wayward son. “I swear,” said Maud, “that child is none of mine. My women must have brought me another child, or I would think so, if he were not as like as two peas to my own father, also an idiot.”

  Gwyn was still wrapped in the magic that Henry had woven around her. He was wrong when he accused her of being impervious to his charm. She was far more ready to succumb to his wiles than even she knew.

  His appearance had been timely enough, she thought, recalling the day’s events as though they had happened long ago in an evil dream. The fierce struggle, the desperate flight, all passed before her eyes, and once again, summoned by memory, she felt Rainault’s cruel mouth on hers, his savage rutting against her body. But Henry had saved her. He was her deliverer, her own knight.

  He was handsome, and he was experienced, and he had an exalted position. Then reality returned with a rush, and almost caused her to fall from Henry’s saddle. Prince Henry must look higher for his wife than a royal ward. Or so she assumed.

  But her mother had been a princess, and so she herself was royal. And if Prince Henry was sincere, and serious, then she might someday wear a coronet!

  She expected to lie awake the whole night, but the wine had made her drowsy. She fell asleep almost at once, with the remembrance of his coaxing lips on hers, and the restless searching of his hands on her body.

  4

  Winchester was an ancient and honorable town. Its past rang with great names such as King Alfred, whose bones were buried in Hyde Abbey within the walls of the town, and King Canute, whose tomb lay near Alfred’s.

  Invading Saxons had salvaged the ruins of Roman and Celt and built their own great kingdom of Wessex around the capital of Winchester, now William’s favorite residence. The town sprawled on an eminence overlooking the river, and looked out across the miles of straggling woodland, furzy heath, swamp, and massive ancient trees that were called the New Forest.

  Only that day had Gwyn and Countess Maud been brought to Winchester, by Prince Henry’s orders. The entire household of the Great Lodge — Jeanne, Brian du Pré, Tilda, and Margit, as well as Countess Maud and Gwyn — had struggled the eight miles over rain-drowned roads to their new home at Winchester. The wearisome journey had taken nearly the entire day.

  Now emerging from the tower that the king had made ready for them, Gwyn breathed deeply of the fresh, moist air and realized how very hungry she was.

  The king had sent pages to light them across the courtyard to his great hall, and now they made their way across the cobbles toward the royal residence.

  This evening would be Gwyn’s first chance to see the Norman king. Her father had always been off fighting somewhere and spent little enough time at his manor in England, and none at court. Gwyn’s mother had been far more interested in bringing up her daughter as a Welsh noblewoman rather than as a Norman lady.

  Gwyn remembered her mother’s tales of the sainted Welsh bishop, Asser of St. David’s, who was a counselor to King Alfred. Bishop Asser’s feet had walked these very stones, thought Gwyn, pausing, oblivious to the downpouring rain, in the courtyard of the castle.

  Inside the great hall at Winchester Castle the noise blocked out the sound of the rain driving against the shuttered windows. The noises of dogs barking, men shouting, waiters slamming down wooden trenchers on the long trestle tables, ricocheted off the walls and mingled with each other in an overpowering din.

  William, called the Red, was not a man to look to refinements in his surroundings. There were no woven tapestries from Arras to hang on the walls to absorb the sound or to keep out the cold damp. The rushes on the floor had not been renewed for months, and lean dogs foraged noisily through the straw for bones. The smells of roast goose and venison were powerful. Gwyn’s mouth watered at the thought of a well-done hare.

  But William the King stood before her, his hand outstretched in greeting. He was a big man whose paunch preceded him. His shoulders slanted downward. The royal tailor had cunningly cut William’s leather jerkin to disguise his physical failings. William appeared to have no neck at all, an illusion created by his shoulder-length hair, worn in the latest fashion.

  But withal William the King was an impressive figure. He was large enough to loom over others, his face was florid, his blue eyes bulged. There was an authority about the man that derived from more than his royal office. But just then, to Gwyn’s relief, the king was in a genial mood.

  “So here is my little ward!” he trumpeted. “I had not realized how very pretty you are! I must find a good husband for you, one with money enough to deserve such a delectable morsel.” For emphasis the king winked broadly at Countess Maud. And then, duty done, he lost interest in them. He waved a vague hand toward the dais and left them to find their places by themselves.

  There were at least a dozen men seated on the dais, and Gwyn, shuddering, recognized a few of them. There was Rainault and Valdemar. Beyond them was the king’s chaplain. He was lean and marked with the pox, and the malicious look in his eyes as he glanced at Gwyn sent a shiver through her.

  She had reason to fear him. Ranulf had been born poor and obscure. Having seen that the only way to advance and to satisfy his ambition was to take holy orders, he did so. He had since clawed his way to being, perhaps, the most powerful man in England, next to the king. First appointed royal chaplain, an office he still held, he was now the king’s chancellor as well. He was called the king’s evil genius. Ranulf was his name, but he was known far and wide by his nickname, Flambard. Flambard, the torch, referred to his knack for causing trouble wherever he went.

  Gwyn turned to Countess Maud, who was searching the room with hard blue eyes. “I know many of these men,” said the countess, “but there are old familiar faces that I do not see.” She pulled her pelisson closer around her. “They’re all so young!” she added, nodding toward the throng of young courtiers swarming ar
ound the king like disturbed bees.

  They found seats, and in a few moments a trencher was set before Gwyn. She began to satisfy her enormous hunger.

  She had reached dessert, apples dipped in honey, before she became aware of a disturbance at the other end of the dais. The chancellor, seated at the king’s right hand, had fallen into loud dispute with Valdemar.

  “I say any man who laps up the drink the Saxon dogs drink is not better than a dog himself,” cried Valdemar. Flambard kept his temper with difficulty. A small vein throbbed along his temple, and Gwyn watched with growing interest. She had no wish to see Valdemar victorious in anything, but she had to admire Flambard’s control.

  He said in an even tone, “But you have not tried the drink. And I think you have already had far too much drink of any kind!” He pushed his bench back from the table. It looked as if he meant to leave, but Gwyn noted that he was now in a better position to defend himself if the need arose.

  Valdemar was clearly beyond discretion. His hand rested on his sword hilt and he moved one menacing step closer to Flambard. “Misbegotten priest! Son of a clerk! You dare to tell a Norman knight how much he can drink?”

  Gwyn glanced at the king, expecting him to stop the quarrel. But the king was engrossed in discussion with his brother, who had just entered, and apparently did not notice.

  There could be no giving in on either side, not without suffering shame. Suddenly all fell silent, aware of the serious quarrel in their midst. A little circle formed around the two men facing each other, Valdemar with his hand restless on the hilt of his sword. Flambard was dressed as always in his priest’s robe, without a weapon, but Gwyn was suddenly positive that there was a suit of armor underneath, or at least a chain-link vest. The two combatants fell silent, circling each other like bears in a pit.

  Countess Maud muttered in Gwyn’s ear, “Why doesn’t the king stop this? Certainly he cannot allow a fight under his very nose!”

  But it was what the king certainly could allow, for he turned in his chair and watched with every sign of anticipation. Gwyn was suddenly reminded of a dog fight back at Ramsey Manor, when a great lurcher met a half-tamed wolf from the forest. Gwyn glanced sidelong at the king and realized that he was much amused by the sight of his henchmen squaring off like small boys.