Crown of Passion

by Jocelyn Carew

  After he responded to Countess Maud, he turned gracefully to Gwyn and, with a courtly bow, said, “You are the lady I came to see. I wish to tender my heartfelt apologies for the unfortunate affair of last evening. I would not wish you to believe that the court is always roaring with brawling men, even though I know your first impression must be of an unruly set of soldiers. But we had not anticipated receiving such a lovely lady into our midst! Surely every knight’s heart will soon beat faster, and each will mend his manners under the influence of two such noble ladies as yourself and Countess Maud.”

  “You give us too much praise, Sir Chancellor,” said Gwyn with poise. But she hoped the chancellor’s quick eyes did not notice her heaving breast. Perhaps he would merely think she was awed by his unexpected visit. “But in my father’s house, we ate in some state, regarding ourselves as superior to the dogs snarling after bones in the rushes.”

  “Gwyn!” warned Countess Maud.

  Ranulf’s eyes narrowed. “I believe,” he said slowly, “that I remember your father. Baron Ramsey — yes, I do. An early campaign, I think, toward the Western Marches. I remember him well. So, he has died. Too bad. I owed him something.”

  “I am to believe that my father was unjust to you?” demanded Gwyn.

  “Not according to his lights, lady, I suppose. But times have changed, and he was not welcome at court these last years. But we have strayed far from my purpose. Although your father was not of a mind with our great King William, yet our sovereign bids me say, welcome to his court.”

  Gwyn hardly knew what she said in response to Flambard’s apology. She was overly conscious of the golden head listening at the door just behind her, the small Jeanne holding fast to Hyrtha’s hand. Flambard had apologized so handsomely that Gwyn had no choice but to respond, “I accept your amends, Sir Chancellor, and will forget the incident immediately.”

  Ranulf Flambard was apparently not quite satisfied. He sent his sharp glance around the small room, noting the two chairs, the container of wood brought in the night before and now drying near the hearth, and the large oak chest standing against the far wall. Gwyn had the fleeting impression that Flambard would like to lift the lid of the chest and paw through the clothes within, looking for whatever he could find. She was beginning to realize that Flambard’s reputation was well deserved. It was said, by many, that nothing he could turn to use, for the king or for himself, ever went unnoticed.

  Gwyn had a fleeting sensation of relief as she remembered that she had picked up Hyrtha’s ragged cloak and thrust it into the chest. She had an uneasy feeling that Flambard would make short work of Hyrtha.

  And still Flambard did not leave. His idea of small talk, suitable for ladies’ ears, ran rather heavily upon deer he had killed and boars he had stabbed, all at great peril to life and limb. Gwyn noticed that Countess Maud was increasingly restless, and she wondered whether the lady was worried about Hyrtha in the inner room. Gwyn was sure that Hyrtha would not make a sound until the man had left.

  But it turned out that Countess Maud’s fears were not for Hyrtha. Maud’s son Brian entered the room then, unannounced. He stopped just inside the door, like a frightened deer, when he caught sight of his mother’s visitor. Gwyn was grateful for the diversion, but Maud was clearly dismayed. Brian looked much younger than his age this morning; his fresh skin was newly scrubbed and his eyes, fringed by long, curved lashes, were wide in innocent surprise.

  “Brian, I am sure you have not finished the tasks I set you,” Maud said through tight lips. “Go and finish them at once.”

  “But stay,” said Flambard. “I do not know this — this young man. Brian, did you say, Countess?”

  The countess was forced to introduce them. “Brian du Pré, my Lord Chancellor. His father was greatly favored by the Conqueror, you may remember, and —”

  “I know who his father was,” interrupted Flambard.

  He greeted the young man with every appearance of cordiality. Rising to his feet and stretching his hand out toward the young man, he added, “Last night I had no chance to talk to you, young sir, but I believe we should get better acquainted.”

  Maud said abruptly, “He’s just a boy and has no education. He has not yet won his spurs.”

  Brian assumed the sulky look that he wore so often in dealing with his mother, and said, “I have all the education I need, sir, and my mother thinks it is unmanly to read and write.”

  Flambard said, “As a man of letters myself, I disagree with your mother. But there are many ways of learning, and we must see here at the court that your education is enlarged.”

  Maud said, rather more sternly than was wise, “Son, you have errands to do for me, and I wish you would get to them. I cannot understand why you are always so slow in doing my bidding.” Brian gave his mother one startled look and then, without a word to their guest, vanished backward through the door. Gwyn read correctly the expression on Brian’s face. There had been no unfulfilled errands. Gwyn hoped Flambard did not translate Brian’s open expression as quickly as she had, but she held out little hope. Flambard was a very shrewd man.

  “He is destined for the church!” insisted Maud sharply. “I shall insist on that, Sir Ranulf.”

  “I see no reason for the boy not to pursue — his proper calling,” said the chancellor. “Whatever that shall be, soldier or monk.” His smile held something of secrecy, but the moment was gone before Gwyn could catch hold of its meaning.

  Flambard then turned his attention to Gwyn. “I am sure that you must find yourself at sea here in the court,” said Flambard. “It must not be much like the manor where you grew up.”

  Gwyn said, “It certainly is not. I should like to wait out the king’s pleasure, until my wedding, at my own manor.”

  Flambard gave the question the appearance of serious study before he answered, “But you see, your manor is not yours anymore. It now belongs to the king. It is his to bestow, along with your hand, on anyone he chooses. I believe I could influence the king in some way, were you to tell me exactly what you would like.”

  He leaned forward on his stool, his thin hands on his knees, and gazed at her, his head cocked to one side. How much like a bird he looked! Gwyn almost made the mistake of underestimating this very dangerous man. “If it is not possible for me to go back home,” she said, “then I should like to go to my mother’s people. To Port Madoc.”

  She had grasped his attention. His bushy eyebrows rose into a peak. He said, “I did not realize your mother was Welsh. The tribes have been troublesome again all along the Marches, and even if the king were to agree to send you to your mother’s people, I fear it would be most inadvisable to go.”

  “The Welsh are troublesome?” said Gwyn, her voice rising slightly in indignation.

  “The Welsh are naught but a series of clans, quarrelsome and unreasonable, and when they do spill out of their mountains, they don’t fight like civilized troops.”

  “But they do have rulers, do they not?”

  “There is a leader of some sort,” said Flambard. “They call him lord, but he is no more than a petty tribal chieftain. The Western Marches are supposed to be under his control — although I should like to see the man who can control the Welsh!”

  “I should like to go to Port Madoc,” repeated Gwyn.

  Flambard raised his hands and slapped the palms down on his knees in emphasis. “It is impossible, I tell you. It will be a long day before you see Wales. FitzOmer is an expert on the Welsh tribes.” Suddenly he laughed, a short bark without amusement. “He will go on crusade rather than fight the Welsh again!”

  Maud stirred, then, and asked, “Then FitzOmer is not to wed the child yet?”

  Flambard responded, “FitzOmer delays his departure. She is still young, but FitzOmer waxes impatient. For her lands, of course. No true man lays a child.” He paused to reflect upon a certain vague rumor, forgotten till now. He added heavily, “He would like to see his lands before he travels to Jerusalem.”

 
With that last warning, Flambard got to his feet and trundled through the door. The two women stared at each other, both listening to the heavy footfalls of the king’s minister as he went down the wooden stairs and out the door. Countess Maud said, “I always thought you a sensible girl, Gwyn, but you have taken leave of your senses this time.”

  Gwyn said, “I don’t know what you mean. I said nothing I did not think proper.”

  “The king is an unchancy sovereign, and who knows what mischief his minister has been brewing here.”

  Gwyn said, “I am a Norman gentlewoman, and I fear no king. I cannot tell what it is, Countess, but that man angers me so I cannot think how to hold my tongue. I should take pleasure in taking a mace to him —”

  “Or boiling oil,” approved Countess Maud. “That way, you might have a chance. But to duel with him in words, my child — I only hope you have not brought disaster upon us all.”

  “I?” said Gwyn. “I did not think it was I who caught his attention.”

  “No, you have the truth of it. I did not want to come to court. I cannot keep Brian hidden away, as you will keep Hyrtha hidden.” She sank to the stool before the fire. She crossed her arms, tucked her hands into her long sleeves, and rocked back and forth. “I fear for him, Gwyn. I must get him away. I shall send him to our estates in Normandy.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “I still have friends. I shall do it.” She rose, and looked somberly at Gwyn. “Dream of your homeland if you wish, but you will never see it. That man did not come here to apologize to you.”

  “Then what?”

  Maud did not answer for a long time. She gazed into the fire, but it was clear that her melancholy thoughts were far away. “Who knows?” she said at last.

  Gwyn was sure that Maud felt trapped by a menacing threat that only she could see.

  6

  The rain ended sometime that afternoon.

  When Gwyn and Maud stepped from the round tower on their way across to the dining hall, the storm wrack was disappearing in the east, and in the far west, in the direction of Wales, a rosy band along the horizon spoke of fair weather to come.

  Yet Gwyn’s thoughts were dark indeed. She dreaded another meal in the presence of the king and his court. The noon meal, which she had truly enjoyed, even though it was roughly served and ill-tasting, had been quiet, for William, as was his daily custom, had gone out into the New Forest with his court to hunt.

  Not only did the king enjoy the sport, but it was a matter of putting meat on the table for the many mouths that ate regularly at the court. William and his good friends hunted daily, for the taste of venison pleased them, as lesser meats did not.

  “Fit for serfs!” was their opinion of the domestic swine that rooted in garbage, but the wild boar or the fallow deer was both game and sustenance for the Normans — and woe befall any Saxon who killed a deer, or even possessed a knife capable of taking a hare. For the New Forest was the exclusive hunting ground of the king and his friends.

  Now the hunters were back, and the evening meal would be, she thought moodily, a repetition of the night before. How long was this new and very unpleasant life to last?

  She had thought she might be able to stay in the tower and have dinner there, but Maud set her straight at once. “My existence already is threatened,” said Maud, “thanks to you.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Gwyn.

  “I don’t even want to say the words,” countered Maud, “lest they be borne on the breezes to the ears of the king. But our best chance, as I see it, is to keep very quiet and perhaps the king will not notice us.” She eyed Gwyn harshly. “This means, my lady, that there will be no outbursts of that Welsh temper of yours.”

  “The Normans have tempers, too,” she said without rancor.

  The two entered the dining hall alone. Brian had been ordered by his mother to stay in the tower with young Lady Jeanne. He had certainly been willing to do so, Gwyn thought, and wondered at his lack of enthusiasm for the activity of the court.

  As soon as she encountered the tumultuous crowd in the hall, she forgot Brian. For Prince Henry had returned, and he was watching for her. Across the crowd he caught her eye, and made his way directly toward them. Greeting Countess Maud, nonetheless his eyes were all for Gwyn.

  “How do you find court life by now?”

  Gwyn said sturdily, avoiding Maud’s eye, “So far, it does not impress me.”

  “I regret that I was late yestereve,” he said at once. “Such an accident as the chancellor’s stumbling should not have happened. But tonight I shall make it my personal pleasure to stand between you and Ranulf.”

  “I shall be grateful,” said Gwyn. “Already I have developed a shrinking feeling when I think of the great hall. Although I must add that hunger is a powerful argument in favor of gathering my courage together and taking my chances.”

  “The king’s table, at least, is generous,” said Henry, in a voice for her ear alone. “But I should be sorry indeed if you deserted us altogether.”

  He bowed low to Countess Maud and then, extending his arm to Gwyn, laughed and said, “We must make it more enjoyable for you. Let me bring you to the dais.” Daintily she placed her fingertips on the scarlet sleeve of his bliaut. In accordance with custom, most of the knights doffed their uncomfortable mail within the precincts of the court, and dined and drank with only the protection of their leather surcoats.

  “Sit here, beside me,” urged Henry, “and let the countess take her place on your other side. Here you will be safe.”

  “Safe from the others, my Lord Henry. But from you?”

  “I hope not,” he said. “I have just started my campaign.” So Gwyn and Maud were seated much closer to the king than the night before. Gwyn hoped devoutly that this might mean a safer dinner, for she still had a sore bruise on her hip where Flambard had fallen on her the night before.

  But as it was, she was close enough to hear the exchange between William and his brother. William seemed to be suspicious, and made no bones about showing it. “You did not join the hunt,” said William. “I missed you.”

  Henry said, “I had no taste for the hunt today.”

  William glanced at him from his deep-set eyes. “Perhaps you were hunting other prey?”

  Henry laughed, saying, “You mean two-legged does?”

  William laughed. “That’s one kind of hunting I have no taste for.” He attacked the venison on the trencher before him. Then he resumed, his mouth full, “I had more in mind the kind of hunting that would help you gain your ambitions.”

  Henry said lightly, “And what are my ambitions? Do you know?”

  William said, “Of course I know. It’s your ambition to wear this circlet.” He gestured toward his crown. He was silent for a moment and then added, “I don’t think you care how you get it either.”

  Henry set himself to soothing his brother. “I rode out north, beyond Malwood. The new trees, planted where the old villages were, are already shooting up, and there’s a good deal of nice underbrush. I swear I saw hares leaping in all directions.”

  William said gruffly, although it was clear that he was mollified, “Hares mean nothing to me.”

  “But hares mean other game will follow,” said Henry. He looked around the crowded hall, as though searching for certain faces.

  “Did FitzHamon hunt today?” Henry added casually.

  “No,” replied his brother over a mouthful of roast swan, “he was called home this morning — some dispute his factor cannot handle. I told him to swing the churl up, but he thinks the fellow useful in some ways. Monfichet is here — you see him yonder. And the Clares.”

  “All good shots,” agreed Henry. “The game was worth it?” From then on the conversation between the two brothers lapsed into ordinary conversation, and the bad moment, when William voiced his ugly suspicions, was gone.

  Henry devoted himself to Gwyn then. “There is Charles Joumont,” Henry said under the noise of the trenchers rattlin
g on the wooden table and the high-pitched voices of William’s court. “There, in the blue velvet doublet, across the room.”

  “I see him,” said Gwyn. “Who is he?”

  Henry made the slightest of grimaces. “He is a special friend of William’s,” said Henry. “Don’t cross him. He can be troublesome.”

  Almost as if on cue, Joumont gave evidence then of his meanness, Flambard had beckoned the wine steward to come with his flagon to refill his cup. But before the steward could get to him, Joumont reached out and plucked the flagon out of the steward’s hand, filled his own cup to the brim, still held the flagon while he drank off half the goblet, and then refilled the glass. It might have seemed an accident, except for the heavy-lidded stare that Joumont sent in Flambard’s direction. It was a small exchange, almost meaningless, but nonetheless Gwyn was conscious of a disturbing prickle at the back of her neck.

  Henry muttered an oath beneath his breath. “Joumont enjoys my brother’s special favor,” he murmured to Gwyn. “But he is greedy. Jealous of Flambard. Foolish, for no man wins against the chancellor.”

  Flambard had already had enough to drink, Gwyn judged. Henry also seemed to think so, for he kept a wary eye on his brother’s minister. Flambard said nothing to the king’s favorite, but Gwyn was certain the entire episode was imprinted and stored in Flambard’s shrewd brain. Flambard, as though to emphasize his own position of prestige, said loud enough for all to hear, “I heard today, sire, that we are to have visitors.”

  William grunted. Taking this as encouragement to continue, Flambard said, “The Lord of the Western Marches is on his way.”

  “So,” said the king, “the Welshman comes to us. Did we summon him?”

  “Not exactly, sire. You wish to have peace along the Marches, and this man alone is the key to the tribes. He is highly respected, sire, and comes thinking himself an ally.”

  “Not a vassal? Well, Normans do not make treaties with savages. We shall have to make it clear to him, eh, Flambard?”