The king announced his plan. “Since all lands belong to me, and I have sold the Ramsey lands, so too do all my vassals belong to me. I may do with them what I will, and it is my will that Gwynllion Ramsey be sold.”
The words went past Gwyn as though she could not believe them, could not take in the ultimate shame that the king had planned for her. There was a murmur around the table, even down along the trestle tables, and the world rocked before her eyes and then settled back.
Sold!
The words echoed in her mind. Sold, sold, sold. And although this was nothing different from young Jeanne’s being sold for a bride price to FitzOmer, yet there was more to come.
“What is so different about this, sire?” interrupted FitzOmer. The man was laboring under a sense of serious injustice, and his injuries made him rash. “I bought me a bride, paid the bride price. A sale of a bride is nothing new.”
The king continued as though FitzOmer had not spoken. “To the highest bidder. And since many a man is empty-handed, but yet may raise funds in devious ways, I wish to be fair.”
“Fair!” cried FitzOmer, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. He gestured to the wine steward to refill his cup. “Give me the wench, then. I bought a bride, and I care not much who she is.” His flight from the castle had not lasted long.
“To the highest bidder,” repeated the king. “Therefore I will have a public auction, with Gwynllion Ramsey on the sales block. It will be great sport, as well as acceding to the Lady Gwynllion’s request that she still be of value to me.” With his final words, the entire room sprang into turmoil. Rhys’s expression was one of sheer horror, and he sprang to his feet, shouting in his deep voice, “You can’t do this! The Lady Gwynllion is a highly born noblewoman! You dare not shame her thus!”
Gwyn was aware of the turmoil, the noisy tumult, and Rhys’s defiance of his host But it all seemed to be happening to someone else, for Gwyn herself was numb.
Flambard, intervening quickly, pointed out to Rhys, “But the Lady Gwynllion is only half Norman. With her lands gone she ceases to be of our blood.”
Rhys’s hand hovered dangerously close to the dagger he had in a sheath at his belt. Caerleon, behind him, clutched his arm and tugged it away from the weapon. Gwyn could hear, as from a far distance, Caerleon’s voice shouting, “You want to get us both killed?”
But Rhys had gone past the point of reason. He shouted in his deep voice, stunning the listeners, “Then I will buy her!”
Flambard said, his light voice cutting across the tumult, “But you have nothing to buy her with. She is merely a Welsh woman, and therefore half savage. You have no need to buy her.”
Rhys said, “You dare not put her on the sale block. I will buy her, no matter what it costs!”
Caerleon tugged at Rhys’s sleeve. “Listen to me, man! The king is baiting you! He longs to anger you so he can make war on us! Don’t be a fool!”
Gilbert de Clare, opposite at the long trestle table, joined the urgent whispering. “He’s right, Lord Rhys! Defiance only sets the king in his ways!”
“I’ll set him …” muttered Rhys angrily.
None of the men thought to look at Gwyn herself. She believed, remotely, that she had fallen asleep and dreamed, and when she waked …
She did not quite know what would happen when she waked. Her hands, as though they had a life of their own, made struggling motions like those of an exhausted swimmer.
“What of the Pope?” It was a disembodied whisper. “He will stop this!”
“In a year?” answered another. “Will the birds tell him what is happening? How else will he know?”
“But the Pope’s men —”
“Are outside the gates. And the gates are closed against them. There will be nothing heard from them, I warrant you.”
Gwyn did not recognize the voices, nor, were she put to the question, could she have sworn the words did not originate in her own throbbing head.
Someone very close to her — in a voice that struck pleasantly on the ear, in a happier time — shouted, “I will meet your price, no matter what it is!” Was it truly Lord Rhys?
Flambard said, leaning across his sovereign, “What will you buy her with? Did you bring sufficient gold in your bags?”
Rhys, his head lowered now, bull-like as though to charge, said, “I would not travel the roads of England with that much gold in my bags, lest some of your Norman gentlemen meet me on the road and relieve me of my burden!”
He breathed heavily and added, “I will send for the money. Hold off your auction.”
Flambard said, “You have two days! Even a bird could not fly to Wales and back so soon.”
Caerleon urged his leader back onto the bench. After a quick exchange of words, he announced to the king, “We will raise the money. You dare not demean a Welsh noblewoman in such a way. It means war, and you have sufficient experience of our troops to know that it will cost you more than you gain.”
Rhys was seemingly speechless. Caerleon adopted a conciliatory air, belied by his fingers twitching near his short dagger, and added, “Sire, I fear your counsel has been in error. If, as you say, the Lady Gwynllion is no longer Norman, for her lands have been shorn from her, then she is without a doubt Welsh. Her people will not take her shaming lightly, I shall tell you, and many a border war has been fought for less.”
King William stared stony-eyed at the Welsh captain. “You tell me nothing but that the Welsh are savage and fight over trifles. What matters it to them that I deal with my royal ward as I choose?”
Rhys shook off Caerleon’s restraining hand and stood, his weight on his palms flat on the board, and fixed the king with an icy glare. “It matters, believe me. And I think — if you are so needy for money as to commit this shame before heaven — you will find the Western Marches will bleed you of all your gains before the year is out. Mark it well.”
William then spoke for the first time since his announcement. “Very well, I would not wish to embark on a costly war, but I must have a price for the girl, and I will give you three days.”
He lifted his gem-encrusted goblet and motioned to the steward to fill it again. He had been sobered, slightly, by the clear anger of the Welsh nobles, and reflection told him that their words were true. If he were to provoke a war along the Western Marches, he could well find the struggle would bleed him of his hard-won resources.
But he had made up his mind, and he dared not admit he was wrong. He had planned this, with Ranulf’s help, for a time when his great magnates were away. His quixotic, ambitious brother could not return in time to halt the proceedings, nor could the others — for he reckoned the time for the news to reach the barons or Prince Henry at nearly a week. All would be done by then.
He would have the money in hand, he would have gained a certain revenge on the late Baron Ramsey who had once told him that his court was too bedeviled for honest men to frequent. And the sharp-tongued wench would find out who ruled at Winchester.
He added to Rhys, “The girl is not sold to you. If someone comes with more money, he gets her.”
Vaguely aware of the threats hurled back and forth across the dais, Gwyn knew only that somewhere inside her head was a smith, pounding without mercy on his anvil. She must stop it, stop the pounding somehow! She rose, almost in a trance, and moved toward the door. She had no clear idea of where she would go — only to find someplace where her head didn’t ache and people hadn’t gone mad.
Gwyn heard the exchange as though it came across a far distance. She could not take in all that was said, nor could she believe for a moment that it pertained to her. The blackness came upon her, and as she surrendered to it, feeling the life flow out of her limbs, leaving her as limp as marsh grass, she thought she heard the king still speaking. “The bidding is still open to all, my Lord Rhys, since it is not a question of lawful marriage.”
And the blackness came and covered Gwyn.
*
The status of the women in the keep was
now altered. The maids were allowed to stay. But Countess Maud and Gwyn were in reality prisoners. The door at the bottom of the tower was heavily guarded, day and night.
Back in her room Gwyn roused long enough to realize that what she had thought she heard in a bad dream was no dream at all, but in fact the truth. Hours passed, dragging at one time and racing at another. Gwyn roused enough to say, “Rhys will buy me, and wed me, I know this.”
It was as though the next day, and the next, Gwyn had turned into two people. One sat, stood, lay down, dressed, as though nothing had happened. The other, surprised, watched the first and marveled. How could a mere shell walk and talk like a human? She herself, she considered — the real Gwynllion — had gone away somewhere and curled up, hiding, in a secret place. The real Gwyn, she believed, would never emerge again.
She did not see the dark glances shared by Countess Maud and her maids. They had few illusions left. Hyrtha seemed restless indeed at not being allowed to leave the tower. But she disappeared for an hour during the day and came back well satisfied. “Where have you been?” demanded Margit, and Hyrtha said, “Seeing to something that may prove needful before this is over.”
Jeanne’s short and simple funeral mass was held in Winchester Cathedral. Countess Maud attended, accompanied by Brian and, following a few steps behind, her maid Margit. Hyrtha dared not show herself where others could see her, lest Valdemar and Rainault catch sight of her again.
Hyrtha went into the inner room, where Gwyn was supposed to be resting. She found her mistress with her hands on the wooden shutters, looking from the same window where Jeanne had leaped to her death. She was measuring the width of the window with her hands, and then transferred the measurement, still between the palms of her hands, to fit her hips. She was a good three inches too broad.
Small as she was, Gwyn realized she could not get through the window. Hyrtha gave an inarticulate cry, and Gwyn turned. “Even Jeanne’s example cannot help me,” she said with a sad note in her voice.
Hyrtha said, “Do not give up so easily, lady.”
Gwyn nodded. Surprisingly, she answered with more spirit than she had shown in the last two days, “No, Jeanne’s way is not my way. Besides, I can’t get through the window!” She smiled wryly. “But one thing I’ve decided, Hyrtha, and I think part of my decision is due to you. You never gave up, did you?”
Hyrtha smiled slightly. “I almost did. That day when you came to my rescue in the forest, I was so tempted to lie down and let what would happen.” She lifted her eyes to Gwyn. “But it turned out all for the best. I would not have missed what has happened since then for a great deal. And I could have thrown it all away.”
Gwyn nodded sharply. She was becoming at least a shadow of her old self again, Hyrtha noted with approval, and she knew that Gwyn was now determined to fight. The maid laughed, in sheer amusement.
Gwyn looked up sharply and said, “What do you find so funny? I see nothing amusing in this situation at all.” Hyrtha explained, still smiling. “I agree it is not funny. To be sold at auction, much as us Saxons have been, is not entertaining — at least not to the victims. But I was thinking that it will be funny in the end. For whoever buys you, no matter how much he pays, is bound to regret it.”
“Regret it he will,” agreed Gwyn soberly. “For if he bids and wins me, whoever he is, he will not even live the year out. I shall kill him.”
“Even Prince Rhys?” suggested Hyrtha slyly.
“Prince Rhys! He would never bid on me.”
“I have heard he has sent for the coin to buy you. But perhaps this is true — to prevent the auction, he will agree to wed you.”
Her eyes filled with tears, stinging the backs of her eyelids. “I don’t want to wed Rhys, not like that! Nor do I wish to wed any man. Oh, Hyrtha, whatever will I do?”
Hyrtha gathered her mistress to her and bade her cry her tears out. “There on my shoulder,” she crooned. “That’s right, get it all out. You can’t fight while you’re crying, so get it over with. For if you fight — then there’s a chance!”
Gwyn heard the words, but she did not believe them — she was only grateful to Hyrtha for the generous love that encouraged, even while it could not help.
*
Rhys, with the ever-present Daffyd and a handful of Welsh troops, rode out from Winchester, giving the impression that they were going to the Jewish moneylenders in London, as their only hope.
Across the hills to the city on the Thames and back would take all of the three days’ grace the king had allowed them to raise the money. To return to Wales, even were there mountains of gold for the asking — which there are not — would take too long.
In London were men of an alien race, who followed the Conqueror to England from the cities on the continent Their religion barred them from all business except the one forbidden by the holy church — that of lending money at interest. The higher the risk, the higher the interest charged. Flambard was well aware of the moneylenders in London. In fact, he still held vast sums of money that had once belonged to the moneylenders, and the latter would be lucky if they ever saw a penny of it again. Since the moneylenders were not Christians, it was easy enough to do away with them, or do away with their books. It was a chancy profession at best.
Once out of the reach of the king and his men, Rhys veered from the trodden road to London and searched through the hills until he found a small valley, hidden from the ordinary traveler.
“We’ll camp here,” he told Daffyd and the others. “There’s a spring, and grass for the ponies. We’ll do fine.”
“What of the lady?” demanded Daffyd bluntly.
“We cannot procure money where there is none,” said Rhys. “So guile must be legal tender for us. We will return in three days and rescue the lady.”
“How?” asked Ifan, his worried frown darkening his face.
“I do not know yet,” said Rhys. “But even so, we will have a better chance than to travel to London to borrow money. It is certain that the king’s men would not suffer us to return from London with our saddlebags full of gold.”
“Aye,” agreed Daffyd, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “If we return a different way, we will escape their traps.”
The third day, by devious paths, the Welsh returned to Winchester. Flambard, astonished, saw them come. “What of Rainault?” he muttered. Valdemar stood nearby.
“He should have come across them,” exclaimed Valdemar. “The Welsh could not slip through the trap set for them.”
“Unless they did not go to London,” said Flambard thoughtfully. “In that case, where did they get the money?”
“Maybe,” suggested Valdemar hopefully, “he had it hidden somewhere along the road to Wales.”
“Maybe,” agreed Flambard, reluctantly. “Well, we shall have it, no matter where he got it.”
“Think you he has the coin with him?” the king wondered.
“There has not been time to return to Wales. I have heard there once were gold mines in Wales, but I do not believe it, for the country is too poor. But the moneylenders might risk their coin for him,” said Flambard. “I wonder whether I should have sent word to them to refuse him?”
“You cannot be serious, Ranulf!” exclaimed his sovereign. “For now, look you, we have the money when he pays it over. Then we refuse to give him the wench, and collect from another buyer. For, my friend, it is not meet that we turn over a Norman lady to a savage chieftain!”
Flambard, perhaps because of his priestly vows, was having second thoughts about the wisdom of his scheme. He was priest and chancellor, but archbishop was still beyond his grasp. And if the Pope heard of this scheme, the position he coveted would always remain out of reach. Flambard had no doubt that the Pope would in due course hear of the auction. There was no way to stop gossip, which flew on the breeze and grew in the telling.
“But we have said she is not Norman, without her lands!”
“We? Not we, Ranulf. You. I refuse to be boun
d by any promises, for no man can keep all he makes.”
Ranulf’s eyes glittered for one unguarded moment, before the lids came down to hood his expression. He had risked much for his king, but gratitude, as everyone knew, was not a virtue of sovereigns.
Flambard objected strenuously. “This is a chancy enough enterprise, and if Anselm hears about it even from Rome, we may find ourselves in deeper trouble than we can easily handle. No, it is my advice, sire, to deal with Rhys in good faith. He seems an honorable man, and it crosses my mind that he will wish to repay the loan. And at that time, we can have both loan and interest, besides the original sum for the bride.”
William slapped his knee in mirth. “What would I ever have done without you, Flambard!” Then, more soberly, he added, “I wish to see the wench abased. She has been nothing but trouble, and her father before her was far too loyal to my father. I had reason to doubt Ramsey’s loyalty to me. Since she has such strong opinions about how I run my court, we will see who is of greater authority at Winchester.”
Flambard pulled his heavy brows together. “I too remember the Baron Ramsey. My regret is that he cannot see his daughter as she will be in a few hours!”
*
The scaffolding was completed. Rhys reined in sharply as he passed through the gates and caught sight of the wooden structure.
Daffyd followed him and snatched the reins of the stout pony as Rhys dismounted. With darkened expression he watched his lord cross the bailey and, with angry stride, enter the great hall. He could well imagine what took place within, but while his heart was sore in his chest, yet he must not interfere.
Leading Rhys’s mount, he turned again through the gates and made his way to the Welsh troops. They had been given a place along the river to the west of the city and the castle. It was a fairer place to camp than the site furnished the Pope’s men, which was nearer the stream and damp underfoot even at noon.
Crown of Passion Page 17