Crown of Passion

by Jocelyn Carew

  Dewi ran to meet him. “You almost came too late!”

  Daffyd agreed. “It seems that this enemy king did not expect us back, for he has built the platform. Is it truly for the sale, or has some miscreant been condemned to die?”

  “Only a shoemaker,” said Dewi. “And not to die. But he dared, so they say, to place an inferior bit of leather on the king’s foot, and for that he must be branded.”

  “Is it so?” Daffyd drew a long breath and let it out in a tuneless whistle.

  Cledog, Dewi’s brother, who had stayed at Winchester with the troops left behind, joined them in time to add to Dewi’s story. “To be fair,” he said, “that was not his only fault. He told all who would listen that when he tried the shoe on the king, he could feel within the woolen hose — a cloven foot!”

  Daffyd said heartlessly, “If it was true, he was the fool of the world to tell it!”

  Gwyn was told that the auction would take place that afternoon. “In such haste!” cried Maud.

  There was indeed haste, as William had told Flambard. “My brother may be on his way back. The devil take him if he’s stirring up rebellion among my barons! He needs to think about something else than my crown, mark you. It will do him good to come back and find that his paramour has been disposed of. In accordance with my wishes.”

  Flambard said, “You think paramour? That takes off from her price.”

  “No, I think my brother has had no success. And that is amusing, is it not?”

  Flambard, unwilling to leave anything to chance, went himself to the round tower. Striding into the room with arrogance, he gave swift instructions. “I wish her dressed simply,” he said to Countess Maud’s maid. “No tunic, no bliaut.”

  Margit, taking advantage of her years, said sourly, “I know how to dress a lady, sir Chancellor.”

  “But I have brought women to do my bidding, wench. I mistrust those who serve her.”

  Countess Maud interrupted. “Well you might, for they are decent women. You will pay for your part in this. Believe me, I mention your name every night in my curses.”

  “You mean prayers, old woman.”

  “I know what I mean, priest And you are cursed as you stand here!”

  “You’re mad,” sneered Ranulf. “Beware lest you tax my patience too far.”

  “That’s all that hasn’t been taxed!” retorted Countess Maud, irrepressibly, but nonetheless she fell silent.

  Gwyn was brought in then, and the Saxon women brought by the priest took charge. Flambard, with a lickerish look at the daughter of his old foe, retreated from the tower.

  Gwyn spoke once to ask, “Where is Prince Henry? Or Lord Rhys?”

  Even though she spoke in their tongue, the Saxon women pretended not to understand. One murmured, “We dare not speak, lady,” and Gwyn asked nothing more.

  Although Gwyn had spent many hours trying to think of a means of escape, none had come to her. She was led across the courtyard to the auction platform, as one is escorted to an execution. She was dressed simply, and virginally, in a long white chemise. The linen, spun from flax and bleached in the sun by her maids at Ramsey Manor, was thin and clung to her figure, revealing only a hint of her slender curves.

  She hardly knew her surroundings, but she was dimly aware that at the far edge of the courtyard stood the older knights, men who remembered this day with infinite regret, the Conqueror, a man of harsh but just rule. Before them, and somewhat to Gwyn’s left, milled the younger knights, those with their way to make, and interested only as spectators, for they realized that the bride price for this fair maiden would be beyond their means. But close around the scaffold, like dogs around a weary boar, stood the young striplings of William’s court. They were a motley group, dressed in the latest fashions from France, and in their colorful garments and their long hair formed a stark contrast to the grizzled warriors of the king’s father.

  This yapping pack, as one of the bolder knights called them, had but one thing in mind — to see a lovely girl brought low.

  *

  The sun sank lower in the sky, and still William had not received the price he wanted. Or, perhaps, he was merely enjoying the scene and was willing to let his favorites enjoy themselves. It would certainly make for great hilarity in the dining hall that evening.

  Falsworth just now was eyeing Joumont with a certain speculation. Joumont, leaning on a stick to support his injured leg, was trying to get back into the king’s good graces and oust Falsworth from his present position close to the king. But such undercurrents were probably known only to William and a few of his closest associates, for Falsworth was adept at keeping his emotions hidden.

  This was not true of Rhys ap Llewellyn, for he stood near the older knights, his face dark as the slate of his native mountains. The king, in spite of his self-confidence, would have done well to consider the effect his playful auction was having on the prince from the mountains to the west The Lord of the Western Marches was as appalled as the older knights, who still had some sense of dignity left, even though they did not openly protest. Those who knew Lord Rhys would have recognized danger signs in the stony gaze with which he regarded the scene.

  “The king did not heed your warning?” asked Daffyd.

  “He said he listened only to money,” said Rhys with a grimace, “and that, of course, we do not have. I did not tell him so, of course.”

  Daffyd eyed his lord with uneasiness. He well knew the Welsh temper that could flick out like the tongue of a serpent and destroy whatever it touched. Daffyd moved his feet uneasily, looking around him and assessing the odds in case of a fight. Certainly William’s minions, for all their foppishness, would be dangerous in a fight, for they had no feeling of decency. Daffyd assessed them as so many yowling cats, and recognized the great strength they had in sheer numbers. The older knights would, out of loyalty, defend their king.

  Daffyd grew increasingly worried. He whispered, “My lord, do not give your thoughts away. We are but two, and they would make short work of us.”

  “Where are our men?” Rhys murmured to his henchman without turning his head.

  “Inside the walls, lord, all of them.”

  “Caerleon?”

  “Yonder.” Rhys followed the direction Daffyd indicated. His captain stood apart, the sun bright on his yellow hair, looking more Norman than Briton. His eyes were intent upon the dainty, nearly nude figure on the platform standing disdainfully away from her tormentor Falsworth. Rhys turned his gaze away from Caerleon, but his own thoughts were troubled. It had been a mistake to come to Winchester, he thought, and yet at the time there had seemed to be a chance to bring peace to the Marches by a daring ploy. The waters into which he had waded were deep indeed — not the waters of diplomacy, but there was the girl and, as always, whatever chancy notion struck Caerleon. He wished himself quit of such an unstable captain, but Caerleon had brought soldiers with him — badly needed numbers if Rhys was to impress King William.

  Daffyd fretted, “I do not like this!”

  Rhys answered out of the corner of his mouth, “They would not molest a foreign lord.”

  Daffyd said, “Have you taken leave of your senses? Look around you, and then tell me if you think the same.”

  Without seeming to, Rhys sent his glance around the courtyard, seeing the men and noting their avid expressions, as they watched the scene unfolding before them. Rhys had far too much experience to underestimate Daffyd’s reflections. As he watched the stony eyes of the older men and the excited lip-licking expressions on the faces of the younger men that surrounded William, Rhys began to realize that, in effect, he stood in a trap that might close any moment upon him. They would be lucky if they were killed, for the dungeons below the keep had a terrible reputation. Those dungeons dated from the time the Saxons held this promontory as a fort. If anyone wished to look into hell, the opportunity was at hand.

  He said, again out of the corner of his mouth, “While we are busy here in this hellish pursuit, do you se
e that the men lodge outside the gate this night. It would be well, don’t you think, to get them outside the gates while all attention is focused elsewhere?”

  “Take care lest we all lodge in the dungeon this night,” counseled Daffyd.

  “I have no wish to bed down with de Mowbray,” said Rhys with a sour grin.

  Robert de Mowbray, Earl of Northumberland, was reputed to be in a deep dungeon here, or at another royal castle. It had been a few years since anyone even remembered the once great magnate, whose wealth and position had led him to what the king called treason.

  Rhys indeed did not wish to spend his days anywhere but in his mountains. He could leave now and ride out with his troops on the way north and west. But something in him — call it curiosity, or call it honor — held him as though an invisible cord linked the two — the Lord of the Western Marches on the ground, and the Lady Gwynllion on the platform.

  It was impossible to retrieve her from this shame. There was no way he could get her past her guards — nor, now, did he have any illusions as to the honor of the king and his chancellor. He was as sure as he ever had been of anything in his life that were he to give up any coin to purchase the lady, he would never leave this realm alive. It would be more than luck to get his men away safely — it would take a miracle at the hands of Saint David himself. But yet he could not leave her.

  Flambard crossed over to Lord Rhys and said, with the suggestion of an elbow in the ribs, “Why are you not bidding?”

  With an elaborate shrug of his shoulders Rhys said, “The girl has lost her value, at least in the eyes of some. I mislike the idea of my property being on display, and therefore I shall not bid.”

  Flambard said, “But the price is not yet as high as you said you were willing to pay.”

  Rhys shrugged his shoulders again and did not reply. FitzOmer moved in on the other side, and Rhys wondered if his movements were directed. He was uncomfortably hemmed in, and he stepped backward as though unconsciously.

  But apparently FitzOmer had only his own injuries to think of. He said bitterly to Flambard, “You’ve got the bride price. I went into debt with the Levantines in order to raise the extra money, and you have it. But my bride is out of my reach now.”

  Flambard laughed heartily, saying, “It seems to me, from what I’ve heard, that it is your own fault. If you can’t manage your pigeon better than that, it is not our fault. The falconer has no duty to replace a falcon which flies into the sky.”

  It was, thought Rhys, an ugly comparison. Whatever had FitzOmer done to the child, to frighten her so that she would leap from a high window in order to escape his touch?

  FitzOmer was still muttering, “Already the price for this wench has gone above the price that I paid for the child, and I have no more money. My king has ruined me.”

  FitzOmer approached Rhys once Flambard had moved away.

  “How much do you expect to pay for the girl?” FitzOmer demanded.

  “Why?”

  “The king has promised her to me,” said FitzOmer, “if you do not bid too high. I have already paid the king two bride prices, and yet I have no bride.”

  “Tell me not any of your woes,” said Rhys with contempt. “I wonder the knights of this court have not already slit your throat. Or perhaps they have decided to wait until you are truly on your way to crusade and have suborned one of your companions to avenge their knightly honor.”

  FitzOmer’s face darkened and his hand dropped to the pommel of his sword. “I should kill you for that!”

  Rhys laughed aloud. “Go do your penance in Jerusalem! You have much to confess already, without adding my murder to your sins.”

  Suddenly Rhys became aware of a rising sound. The gates stood open, as was the usual custom during the day, but the sentries’ attention was focused on the drama being played out before them, and they were not alert to the approach of an armed troop until it was too late.

  For the newcomer rode in at the head of his dozen armed men. His swift glance swept the courtyard, and he was immediately aware of the disgraceful scene before him. Ignoring his brother, he rode directly to the foot of the scaffold, scattering the minions before him. Then Prince Henry shouted in that deep voice trained to sound above the clamor of battle, “Stop!”

  11

  William advanced on his young brother. “You come early, Henry. I had not expected you for two more days.” His cold eyes narrowed and his voice altered. “What right have you to interfere in my affairs?”

  Prince Henry knew he stood on uncertain ground. He had no right to intervene, except the right of any decent man.

  “I am trying to save you, dear brother, from what I think is evil counsel.”

  William, standing so tall that his paunch almost disappeared, fixed his brother with a glaring eye and said, “Evil counsel?”

  His voice was mild, but his demeanor was not. Henry, remembering a childhood in which William played an overwhelming and unpleasant part, reined his horse back and, signaling to his squire, dismounted. He took off his helm and let his dark hair shine in the sun.

  Henry’s arrival, and his swift scattering of the “yapping pack,” brought an altered atmosphere to the bailey. The older barons, ranged disapprovingly at the far edge of the circle, now summoned their supporters from outside the gates. Even a priest or two from the Pope’s embassy ventured inside.

  Prince Henry went on, “The sound of this day’s work will reach across the Channel, and our brother Robert may have reason to speak to the Pope about this. After all, the girl is half Norman, and a noblewoman.”

  “What has Robert to say about anything, even in Normandy?” said William impatiently. “I rule here in England.”

  Prince Henry shifted his ground quickly. “But the Pope does have something to say. The emissary outside the gates, even now, is mouthing threats against your rule. There is plenty of unrest in your kingdom, brother, without adding to it by this foolishness.”

  William eyed him through narrowed lids and said, “I imagine you know all the pockets of discontent in my land,” and his face grew even more florid. It was one of William’s fixed ideas that Prince Henry coveted the throne for himself, and while Prince Henry would not upon oath deny it, yet he had sense enough not to meet his brother head-on.

  “Look around you, brother,” said Prince Henry in a lowered voice. “See how many of your vassals are beaming with approval, and remember, they are the magnates of your realm. It is foolhardy to face them all down. Even those who are not here will learn of it soon enough.”

  *

  Daffyd made his way through the excited throng to his leader’s side. “The men are all outside the camp, lord,” said Daffyd in Cymric, “and the captain says all is ready for an attack.”

  “On what?” asked Rhys with raised eyebrows. “Twenty men, in leather, to storm this fort defended by a hundred men in mail?” he snorted.

  “Aye,” agreed Daffyd. “But we must get the girl out some way.”

  For answer, Rhys let his eyes wander around the bailey, silently noting the heavy guard at the gate, watchful men atop die walls next to die gate towers, the general air of excitement that pervaded the yard, a state of emotion that could lead to quickly drawn weapons.

  “I dare not risk it,” said Rhys at last. “I dare not weigh Wales in the balance with a slip of a half-Norman girl.”

  “But —” began Daffyd, but Rhys waved him to silence.

  “No more, Daffyd. The maid has protector enough in Prince Henry. He has done more than the rest of us could hope to do.”

  When Henry emerged from the heated conference with his brother, his face was as flushed as William’s. Henry was truly angry — angry, and grim, and in a furious, rash temper. He was besieged by questions. He gave only the briefest of answers. “The auction is postponed, until tomorrow.”

  Soon, Henry visited Countess Maud’s rooms. “He has gone beyond reason,” Prince Henry said somberly. “I could not make him see what dishonor he has brought on hi
mself. I wonder that someone has not already sent word on its way to Schiavi.”

  “Schiavi? What is that?”

  “The village near Rome where our archbishop lives.”

  “What good is Anselm?” said Countess Maud sourly. “By the time word gets to him … I do not understand the king. He allows his wards to kill themselves, to be tortured as Gwyn has been, and yet he lifts not a finger.”

  “It is only the land he covets. Not honor, not fair repute — nothing but land and money!”

  Prince Henry looked away from Countess Maud, as though he could not meet her eyes. He added hesitantly, “My brother — blast his eyes — has decided the bidding must be stimulated tomorrow. He feels that the assets of the object on sale” — his mimicking of his brother was cruelly accurate — “are not visible enough. So tomorrow —” Maud’s mouth dropped open, as she struggled to speak. “You mean —”

  Henry looked up to see the maid Hyrtha in the doorway to her mistress’s room.

  “My lady is asking what happened.”

  Prince Henry said, “I’ll talk to her.”

  He moved to the inner room and carefully closed the door behind him. Countess Maud lifted both eyebrows, but shook her head to Hyrtha. “If the prince wishes to talk to Gwyn, let us hope that he says something encouraging. For the prince is her only hope now. Let us trust in him.”

  Inside the inner room Gwyn lay still with her eyes closed. “What happened? Did you find out, Hyrtha?”

  When Prince Henry responded, she opened her eyes instantly and sat up on the pallet. Clutching the fur coverlet to her, she said, “I thought you were away. I feared — Did you buy me?”

  Prince Henry said ruefully, “No, worse luck. I did not know about this until a few moments ago. But I did stop the auction.”

  Gwyn closed her eyes and turned away from him. “That is no help, for it just postpones the evil. I wish I were dead.”

  *

  On the king’s head, as Gwyn had said, lay the sin. But William was not worried on account of it. He was pacing the floor of his apartments. Flambard watched uneasily from the window seat. “That stupid brother! I’ll not let him stand in the way of this auction. I’ve had another word from the Pope’s emissary. I don’t know whether he knew about the way I was trying to raise money or not, but he was most insistent on being repaid.”