Crown of Passion

by Jocelyn Carew

  Gwyn’s eyes narrowed. “I fear he may get into trouble with the king,” she fretted.

  Caerleon shook his head. “Lord Rhys will get into trouble that he can’t handle with nobody.” He reached down to Gwyn to help her up. As they strolled back together toward the open gates of the fort, Caerleon said, “We are honored guests here, and not vassals. But I fear that King William believes otherwise.”

  “And will Lord Rhys refuse to become the king’s vassal?”

  Caerleon looked at her in mock horror. Throwing up his hands, he exclaimed, “Lord Rhys will never be any man’s vassal. No matter how wise such a move might be. There are advantages to becoming a Norman vassal, but Rhys will not see them.”

  Suddenly, Caerleon had enough of talking about his leader. Making some excuse, he left her and hurried toward the fort to join Rhys and ride out toward the king. Caerleon feared that Rhys might allow his temper to lash out at the king, and that would be improvident possibility. Gwyn was left to make her way alone toward the fortress.

  But Rhys and Caerleon were not the only truants from the hunt. Before she got back to the gates, she was accosted by Valdemar. She had not exchanged a word with him for some days, but he apparently still remembered with rancor their encounter in the forest.

  “I wonder at the haste of the tribesman who left just now?” taunted Valdemar.

  “Tribesman?” echoed Gwyn. “I saw none.”

  “I suppose you would call him a captain, perhaps, leading the raggle-taggle soldiers that perfume the place with their foul wood-smoke odor. But he is naught but a savage!”

  Gwyn shrugged her shoulders. She was unwilling to joust with Valdemar. “As you will have it,” she said quietly.

  Valdemar planted his feet wide apart and placed his hands on his hips in a gesture of defiant arrogance. “You seem willing enough to grant favors to such pigs as they, but you deny a Norman what he wishes. Answer me that, lady!” The last word was twisted into an ugly epithet.

  She drew herself up to her full height. If he wanted a battle, then she would indulge him with at least a skirmish.

  “All Normans seem to drink overmuch,” she said lightly, “and so early in the day, too.”

  “I have had little this day.”

  “Then your manners are at fault. I believe I had rather lay the blame on the wine. But no matter. It is not your affair what I do. I answer only to the king.”

  “The king!” Valdemar grinned. “I think he might be interested to hear of your tryst with the fool who thinks he is a prince. What” — he advanced a step — “will you give me not to confide the tale of your meeting directly into the king’s ear?”

  “The last confidence,” said a voice unexpectedly behind Valdemar, “you would make on this earth.”

  “Caerleon!” gasped Gwyn.

  The Welsh captain stood on the path, his hand on the hilt of his short sword, thrust loosely through his leather girdle. Eyes blazing, he shouted, “Is this the way a Norman knight acts toward a lady? I swear our savage court, as you call it, in Wales would be better mannered than this.”

  Valdemar, angry, hurled himself toward Caerleon. As he came, he mouthed some obscene names that Caerleon, for all his pretense of not understanding Norman, understood well enough. Valdemar’s rage played him false. He did not see Caerleon’s quick right fist, which if it had been mailed, would have killed him. As it was, Valdemar sprawled on the ground from the blow to his temple and Caerleon laughed.

  Gwyn hurried away from the scene, leaving Caerleon to guard her as far as the gates. He saw her safely into the bailey before mounting his pony and riding out in search of his leader.

  At dinner that night no word was spoken of the episode on the hillside. The dinner was another state affair, in honor of the Welsh allies, as the king called them, with scarcely veiled contempt, and Gwyn wondered whether or not Rhys noticed. At one point, listening to the flowery speeches, Rhys turned slightly in his chair and caught Gwyn’s eyes. She was content to read, and truly not quite surprised, that Rhys was fully aware of the king’s intentions. But even Rhys was not prepared for William’s next remarks. The king rose to his feet and toasted his ally, Rhys, Lord of the Western Marches. Rhys rose to his feet in has turn and responded appropriately.

  The dinner that night was even more ostentatious than the banquet of the preceding evening. Haunches of venison, a peacock served in its plumage, bubbling stews of young hare or leveret, and an immense river of strong drink.

  The talk was all of the hunt. Gwyn listened, bemused. Rhys had been given, so it seemed, the place of honor in the shrubbery directly opposite the most frequented stag run.

  “And this man,” crowed William the King, reaching out to embrace the Welsh lord, “this prince among hunters, lifted his bow and sped the arrow through the heart of the stag.”

  “From a distance quite unbelievable,” echoed Flambard obsequiously. “One might think he had a quarrel fixed to his crossbow.”

  “Only the bow that my people use, daily, in our mountains,” said Rhys quietly. “I am not considered an outstanding shot, at least among my fellows in Wales.”

  There was silence for a moment, as various of the armed followers of the king reflected on experiences along the Western Marches — either their own, or those heard in vivid detail. The Welsh tribes came out of the mist, attacked with their deadly weapons before their quarry knew they were there, and vanished once more. Like fighting moonbeams, or giving battle to fog, so they said.

  Rhys’s words reminded them of the one festering wound in the side of the Norman kingdom — the Western Marches, where the Welsh could not be conquered, and yet would not stay in their mountains.

  Rhys, having made the point he wished them to remember, turned graciously to Prince Henry at his side. “We have great deer in our land. When they shake their great antlers the sound echoes down the mountainside like boulders tumbling down a cliff. You must come to hunt in our mountains, one day.”

  Henry, with a grin, agreed. “I shall come, I warrant you. Let us hope it is only the deer I shall stalk.”

  Then the king said, in his booming voice that made the arras on the walls ripple, “As you know, the Pope has sent an emissary to our court. As usual, the Holy Father wants something, and this time it’s money.”

  His own money, thought Gwyn wryly, and why wouldn’t he want it back?

  William went on, “I need to raise a certain amount of money. There is booty to be had along our northern borders and along the Western Marches. But alas, all my fighting men have started for the Holy Land. The last contingent of men, under FitzOmer, is ready to leave within the month. I dare not divert these men from their holy purpose, but I have a new suggestion.”

  He looked down at the man sitting at his right hand. “You have come to me just in time,” the king addressed Rhys, “for I have a proposition to lay before you. I suggest that your tough soldiers, and yourself, too, would be glad of a little booty in hand.” The king made a rubbing motion with thumb and fingers and then went on, “I give you free leave to raid the northern borders, and the Welsh borders, too, if you like, and I will pay you. Of course, I cannot pay you now, but I will share the booty with you, half to me and half to you for your wages. How does that sound?”

  Rhys was on his feet, his dark brows pulled together in a fearsome frown. “I came here as an ally, as a lord in my own land, and not as a hireling mercenary.” The chair fell behind him to the floor, and Rhys was almost on the verge of attacking William, so Gwyn thought. She lifted her hand in protest, but Rhys did not see it.

  “The northern lands?” echoed Rhys. “I had thought there was not a stone left upright after your illustrious father defeated Sweyn and devastated the north.”

  “But the Scots barons are restive,” explained Flambard, “and although no Viking has invaded the coast for fifteen years, yet the savages of the north are not content to stay in their mountains. But there is plunder aplenty for the man with courage enough to take it.”
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br />   FitzHamon, beyond the king, glanced up sharply. Alert as always, he listened intently. He seemed about to protest but then, remembering the loyalty he had sworn to William, refrained.

  Gilbert de Laigle labored under no such nicety of feeling. “It is the duty of your barons, sire, to patrol your borders. Not to pit an alien — pray forgive me for blunt speaking, Lord Rhys — against the Scots. It is our land, sire, and we will guard it well.”

  “I mistrust your guardianship, de Laigle, and feel safer with you under my eye,” retorted William, “than raising an army, pretending to repel the Scots.”

  “You have no right, sire, to accuse …” Gilbert de Laigle met the frigid eye of his sovereign and bowed his apology. But, to Gwyn’s eye, he did not look chastened.

  Rhys intervened, saying to de Laigle, “We do not take it amiss that we are called aliens, Sir Gilbert. You know that the name you call us — Welsh — is merely the Saxon name for foreigners. Although, of course, it was the Saxons who were outlanders.”

  “You instruct us to our benefit,” said Flambard easily, but the emotions engendered by the king’s abortive scheme were not quelled by the king’s bold laugh.

  “It was only a jest,” William said, backing down. “I am glad you were not taken in, Lord Rhys. Now we must get down to our true business. I have a castle on the western edge. The defender of it, Roger de Lacy, I have need of here at court, and I should like you, my ally and fellow prince, to undertake the defense of Ludlow Castle.”

  Rhys’s expression remained impassive, but Caerleon smiled broadly. He glanced around him at the Normans, intent upon their meat. He leaned toward Rhys and said, “It’s what we wanted — a castle along the Western Marches.”

  Rhys sent a quelling glare in his direction. But Caerleon was on fire with the idea and found an ally in William.

  The king hinted, then, that he could turn the defense of Ludlow Castle over to someone else, who might be unfriendly to the Welsh.

  Rhys frowned, and the king at once burst out into laughter, his curiously speckled eyes nearly hidden in folds of fat. “A jest, a jest, Lord Rhys!” he crowed. “You must learn the usages of our court!”

  Maud paid little heed to the discussion going on at the table. She seemed not even to hear William Rufus’s loud voice and broad laugh. Nor did she more than wince when Flambard brayed his appreciation of his sovereign’s humor, though the chancellor sat close enough to touch her.

  “Which one was it, Gwyn?” demanded Maud.in an undertone. “Tell me. For I am a Christian woman, you know, and I should not like to kill the wrong man.”

  “Dear Countess,” whispered Gwyn, “shall I take you back to the tower?”

  “Although,” said Maud, as though Gwyn had not spoken, “all of them will meet their Maker with sin on their black hearts. Was it Valdemar?”

  Gwyn said softly, “Do not mention names.” Then, as inspiration struck her, she added with guile, “Lest you warn them, you know.”

  Maud nodded wisely and fell silent. But her restless eyes roved without stopping over the knights assembled in the court of King William.

  Gwyn, sorely distressed over Maud’s black humor, scarcely noticed FitzOmer’s approach until he spoke to the king. “I should like a boon, sire,” began FitzOmer. “I should like to marry the girl at once.”

  Appalled, Gwyn sprang to her feet and, oblivious to Maud’s clutching hand on her sleeve, cried out, “She is too young! You cannot wed her yet!”

  FitzOmer did not even glance at her. He continued as though she had said nothing. “It is my right, to marry the girl before I leave on crusade.”

  The king was obviously nettled at being interrupted in the middle of a conversation with his guest of honor, Lord Rhys. FitzOmer, a callous, insensitive man, paid no heed to his monarch’s mood. But William said flatly, “For a fee, the marriage may take place this week.”

  FitzOmer objected strenuously. “I have already paid a fee, and the marriage is mine.”

  William said cannily, “But the fee was only for the betrothal. I made no commitment as to the wedding date. The marriage itself will require another fee.”

  FitzOmer plunged ahead. “You have been getting the income for two years, and now I need the income for the Crusades. Surely I have a right to this —”

  William interrupted him with steely eyes and said icily, “You have no rights except what I wish to give you. I need a flat payment to add to the money I must give to that usurer, the Pope. There will be no marriage without a fee, and I will even give the girl to someone else, if your fee is not forthcoming.”

  “You cannot!”

  “I’d be a fool to let you wed the girl,” added the king. “She is too young, I hear? Then she is not overly anxious to have you in her bed.”

  FitzOmer’s voice dropped so that Gwyn could not hear his next words, but they clearly infuriated the king. “I tell you, you shall not wed the girl. I can sell her a dozen times over while you are gone. What if you don’t come back? Are my hands to be tied by a widow? She will not fetch as much as a virgin, you know that. Now FitzOmer, get you gone before I repent of my leniency!”

  William was clearly in need of more money and was ready to give up an income for a flat payment. The Pope’s message must have been strong indeed. But Gwyn had no idea quite yet of the depth of the need that William was experiencing. His need for money was desperate. And in his great need, of which she was not yet aware, his eye fell beyond FitzOmer and lighted with new speculation upon Gwyn herself.

  How much, brooded William Rufus, hangs on that debt to the Pope! It had seemed easy enough to borrow, and then no word was set about repayment. Since William was not a man of forethought, he had considered the money as his own to spend as he would. Now, if the Pope chose, he could excommunicate the king who would not repay his debts, and an excommunicated lord could not count on the allegiance of his vassals.

  Already there had been uprisings among the disaffected magnates of his kingdom, the worst only three years ago in 1095. He could not hold them, were he beyond the folds of the church and their vows of loyalty therefore cancelled.

  Nor could he, then, receive Normandy as an inheritance from his brother Count Robert, now absent and (thought William hopefully) in dire peril in Jerusalem. And if William were ineligible to receive Normandy, and the sworn allegiance of his brother’s vassals, then Count Fulk of Anjou would weasel in his claim in some way. William’s thought held no light.

  He needed more money, and he would even dare the devil in order to obtain it!

  9

  The next day Gwyn was summoned to the king’s presence. Full of apprehension, she hurried across the courtyard to the great hall.

  William held court daily in the great hall — the same room used at various times in the day for shelter from the rain, for dining, for games and song by torchlight in the evenings.

  His chair was a curiously carved wooden seat under a canopy, also carved of the same dark wood, extending from the wall behind and providing an aura of dignity. The wood was probably oak, although it was so blackened by smoke from the hearth as to be past distinguishing.

  The courtiers gathered in the great hall in fluttering swarms that reminded Gwyn of butterflies. They had adopted long silken pelisses that swept the floor as women’s did, instead of the shorter bliaut that was more convenient for men when mounting horses or indulging in swordsmanship.

  Gwyn had long been accustomed to the sounds of armor, of swords, of mailed feet in her father’s hall, but here there was little to remind her of the old days. Instead, in a far corner a couple of the nonmartial courtiers teased a dog whose barks became more and more frenzied. Beyond were three more clustered together, two of them combing the long hair of the third. Closer at hand, trying to catch the king’s ear, a minstrel, with a young voice but an old face, strummed a lute and sang a bawdy lay:

  His love was mine until the dawn

  My belly swells, but he is gone …

  She stood unnoticed on
the fringe of the men crowded around the king. He was sitting on his raised chair on the dais, and at his feet cowered a lowly shoemaker. The shoes on the royal feet were of scarlet leather, and the king was greatly pleased with them.

  “Tell me,” he roared, apparently under the impression that all menials were burdened with faulty hearing, “what price you extort for these pieces of hide?”

  The shoemaker, fearing to mention a price too high, mentioned a sum. Immediately, he knew he had made a mistake. The king lifted one foot, planted it firmly on the shoulder of the kneeling tradesman, and shoved him viciously. The poor cobbler tumbled off the dais and fell to the rush-covered floor. He was not hurt, except for his pride, and pride was a luxury he could not afford.

  “Please, my lord, sire,” he stammered, holding his hands out beseechingly, “I have another pair. May I bring them in?”

  “You had others more dear, and you did not show them first? By the bones of the saints, I should have your eyes for this. But since I am feeling content with the world, you may bring them in.”

  In only a moment the shoemaker returned, bearing with ostentatious reverence a pair of green leather shoes, of a design that was only just now coming across the channel from the continent — soft and supple, the toes turned up and curled back. The leather, Gwyn thought, was inferior to the first pair.

  The novelty caught William’s eye. Before he could ask, the cobbler mentioned the price — triple that of the beautiful scarlet shoes. William, his eyes fixed with pleasure on his new shoes, jerked his head at Flambard. “Pay him.”

  The cobbler fled, coin in clenched hand, a hunted look on his face.

  Gwyn soon found out the reason for her summons. William, restored to good nature, folded his fat hands across his paunch and regarded her with greed. It was not the greed of masculine lust. He looked as though he contemplated a prized jewel.

  “My dear ward, I have come to a conclusion, and I am sure you will agree with me that it is the best thing to do.”