Gwyn was reminded of Jeanne’s favorite story. The Three Butterflies had taken the villain of the story away from Wales and, on the theory that every man has a right to return to his birthplace, allowed him to return. At the rate of one barleycorn a year, a small third of an inch, it would be a long time before he saw the mountains of Wales again. But Gwyn, dressed up in men’s clothing fleeing from a shameful fate, was traveling toward her mother’s homeland at a rate a little faster than a barleycorn a year!
Book Two
1099
1
Gwyn slipped into a dream.
The moon was moving toward setting, and still the sturdy Welsh ponies trotted without tiring. She had seen Lord Rhys’s caravan coming into Winchester in just this fashion, the Welsh soldiers trotting alongside the ponies.
The great dog Maxen loped beside her, his dark head turning sometimes as though to make sure she was still there. It was hard, she thought dreamily, to realize that he was only a dog, not a human with more sensitivity, more generosity, than many a human she had recently known.
The jolting in the hard saddle kept her from falling into a deep sleep, but somehow her senses seemed suspended in the cool, dark night. She was aware that the track wound north, keeping to the shadows as the moon rose and the clouds skittered across its face. But it was oddly as though she had become two persons. One traveled hard, pounding along with the trotting soldiers, but the other covered her face in shame and sorrow, to shut out remembered scenes of grief and horror. She did not quite know which of the two was Gwynllion, but someday perhaps she would.
If the soldiers seemed clustered about her own pony, and were strung out unevenly ahead and behind, she hardly noticed. The ancient trackway, following the bank of the river, rapidly took them out of sight of the fort. Caerleon pushed on as though anxious to put as many miles as possible between him and the fort. Gwyn dreaded what might happen to Lord Rhys if he were still in the fort when William discovered that not only had his prize heiress escaped his clutches, but also the Welsh soldiers were off and away during the night. Would Rhys be cast into the dungeon?
Gwyn woke with a fright from her dream of Rhys reaching out to her from behind dungeon bars. Instantly, at her cry, Caerleon was beside her. “What is it?”
Gwyn was guiltily aware that she had broken the safe silence of their flight. “A dream, no more,” she said.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
She was ready to drop, but she would not ask for rest. She had put her saviors in peril, and she was determined to keep up with them as long as she could. When she dropped off her pony, that would be time enough to stop.
“No,” she answered, “we’re not far enough away yet.”
Caerleon looked up at the moon, now westering. “We have only skirted your king’s New Forest. Ahead is the River Test, and I shall rest easier were we to ford it before we stop.”
She closed her eyes — another hour, perhaps more, of the spine-jolting journey. But she could not trot alongside her pony, as the other Welsh did — at least, not yet. She drew herself up in the saddle and looked steadily at Caerleon. She would have retorted with spirit, simply to give herself the courage to continue, but all she heard herself say, weakly, was, “He is not my king.”
Caerleon laughed aloud. “You remind me of nothing so much as an orphan kitten. Defiant as a panther, but without claws.”
“Don’t you believe it,” she said, forgetting that she had no dagger at her belt. The Saxon workman whose clothes she wore would have had no need of a weapon.
Caerleon gave the word, and the Welsh caravan moved even more quickly down the slope, across a small stream, and up the other side. Looking back, Gwyn could see nothing but dark hills, and far away a silvery reflection of the moon on moving water.
She clung to the pony’s mane with both hands and let the constant motion soothe her. She could hear nothing but the muffled clop of hooves — no voices, no jingling harness.
At some point during that night’s journey, the track widened, and Caerleon eased up to ride beside her. “How did you get out?” he demanded. “It occurs to me that your departure must have been marked, for the gates were manned well and strongly, by men who feared for their lives were even a mouse to slip through!”
“Yet,” said Gwyn evasively, “I am now outside the walls.”
“And a horde of uncouth Normans storming behind us, no doubt!” he exclaimed. “How did you escape their eyes?”
Gwyn laughed. “I was once called a witch. I must have flown over the walls!”
Caerleon laughed. “You’re a witch, I agree, but not quite that kind. I vow that you have bewitched all of us, myself among them.”
“I don’t understand why Lord Rhys was left behind?”
Caerleon pointed out, “You remember you came upon us unannounced. Lord Rhys, of course, is our commander, but I am his captain. I wanted to put as much space between us and the fort as we could. The first place your king will look, when he finds you are gone, is to the Welsh who claim you as kin. There was hardly time to storm the fort and relieve Lord Rhys.” He moved a little closer to her. Riding knee to knee, he leaned over and said softly, “Besides, Rhys is a man of one idea. The tribes of North Wales are all as obsessed as he with the idea of independence and have no thought in their minds but to resist the Normans. You’ll find it much more peaceable, I’m sure, to listen to me.”
“Peace? Impossible in this land!”
But her thoughts curled lovingly around the very idea of peace, of rest for the mind, ease for the heart. She glanced sidelong at her companion, riding in his saddle with grace. His body moved back and forth with the motion of his pony, with almost feline sinuousness.
“You think,” he said after they had ridden for some time in silence, “that Rhys would have bid for you? There was not enough money in England to appease the Norman king. Rhys did not even try to raise money.”
She glanced up swiftly. “But I heard him offer to buy me, that night.”
“With what?” said Caerleon reasonably. “He sent us all outside the walls, ready to leave, you remember.”
“I did not know that.”
“We were ready to travel at a moment’s notice — and lucky for you, as it turned out,” said Caerleon. His voice was low, fitting the hurried pace that the Welsh set, escaping from the long arm of the king, and — although she did not think of this — muted enough so that none of the men could overhear. “Lord Rhys gave us orders to be ready,” he continued, a biting sarcasm edging his words, “for he was planning to join us by dawn. Without you.”
“But he said it would be war were the king to — to sell me!”
“Only a threat. Lord Rhys does not war over women. He does not dream of love, of fair maidens, but only of reuniting Wales. He dreams of power, of leading the Cymry as Arthur Pendragon did with Merlin’s help. But we do not have another Merlin, and Arthur long ago went to sleep on the barge, moving out into the lake.”
Ifan’s cry shivered the night, sending a chill down her spine. “We’re followed!” Her heart stopped for the space of a breath before it took up its beat again. The Normans had discovered her absence! she thought. A myriad of fears raced through her mind, like mice in a meadow. They had caught Hyrtha! They had put Countess Maud to the torture!
With the swiftness of long practice, the ponies were rounded up and immediately put as a barrier between Gwyn and the unknown pursuers. Caerleon paused to say to her, “Don’t worry. I’ve got you out of the fort, and I’ll never let them take you back. You’ll thank me for this one day, and remember your rescuer.”
Dewi seized the reins of Gwyn’s pony and hustled it ahead, to the front of the pack train. “Do you bide here,” he told her. “Till we see who comes pounding through the night.”
“Will it be the king’s men?” she inquired fearfully. “For I will not let them take me.”
“If it is the Norman, lady, I will come to hide you. We do not bow meekly, even in the enemy’
s land.”
Giving the pony a reassuring pat on the neck, suddenly Dewi was no longer there. She was learning that the Celts had an ability to vanish while one looked at them, as though a spell cast upon them by Merlin or another wizard had suddenly struck them invisible.
She strained to listen to the sounds approaching behind them. Her companions were out of sight, but suddenly Maxen placed his cold nose — as one might touch a hand in reassurance — on her bare leg. She bent down to whisper, not knowing quite what to say. Surprisingly, the words came out as one human to another — “Thank you.”
She noticed that, curiously, the ponies were not unloaded, but instead were ready for flight if that were the best policy. The Normans would have prepared for battle in a much more dogged way, baggage train well behind, ready for retreat. The Welsh were always ready to flee, but it was not quite a retreat. It was rather taking all of their gear with them, to start anew at a better place for defense.
Dewi crept back to her. “I mislike this country,” he muttered irritably. “Too flat. I like the mountains at my back.”
Gwyn glanced involuntarily at the hillside, rising abruptly from the trackway, sheltering travelers from cold winds and curious eyes, and wondered about a land so rugged that these hills could be called “flat” in comparison.
It was surprising that with thirty living, breathing men, and as many ponies, there would be such silence. She could hear no one breathe. Only her own pony whuffled once and then was silent. It was as though the entire hillside slept in its night garments of darkened shrubs and trees, and a more peaceful scene one could not imagine. But Gwyn knew that the men around her had drawn their short swords and were prepared to shed blood before the next hour had passed. The sound came to her more clearly then, the sound of galloping horses, riding as though the devil were after them. She listened carefully and believed she could make out two riders.
She leaned from her saddle and spoke in Dewi’s ear. “I wish I had a weapon — of any kind, Dewi.”
“Look behind your saddle,” he advised. “See if there isn’t a dagger there.”
Her fingers explored and were rewarded. Attached by leather thongs and tucked into a pocket in the leather saddle nestled a small dagger. Carefully she drew it out and tested its edge with a cautious finger. It was sharp — sharp enough to send one or two, at least, beyond this life.
But after that?
Behind them on the trackway a broad ray of moonlight pierced the trees that lined the top of the hill. She watched this moonlit space intently, for the riders must pass through that before they reached the Welsh.
But they did not. The riders came closer, closer, and then suddenly stopped. It was as though the devil had swallowed them up, or they had been ghost riders from the beginning.
Gwyn suppressed an impulse to cross herself, against an evil she did not know. But she had escaped from the evil she had known, and it was more curiosity than fear that guided her now.
The sudden, eerie silence stretched on and on. At length, a weird whistle, like a hawk soaring overhead, came to her ears. Insensibly, around her, the Welsh soldiers relaxed, even though they still held their swords ready. But the hawk’s cry they knew, and trusted.
The silence stretched — the hawk’s whistle came again, and there was a curious stirring around her. The men moved, imperceptibly, their feet making a shuffling whisper, their breathing agitating the air, not with sound, but with some unseen message that told Gwyn they were no longer anxious and awaiting an enemy.
Still holding her dagger, she slipped from her saddle and, clutching the pony’s reins, inched cautiously back along the trackway. Maxen the hound kept pace beside her.
An answering whistle came from nearby, and then two riders stepped into the moonlight, walking their horses slowly across the light. Even though their faces were in shadow, she knew the newcomers were Lord Rhys and his faithful shadow Daffyd. They did not dismount, but instead spoke to Caerleon in hurried undertones. The great dog Maxen moved closer to Gwyn, and she felt his inquiring nose touch her ankle. Caerleon said, “We did not expect you until the day.”
Rhys said, “The court was in an uproar. The girl is missing, and they have no idea where she went. Someone went across to change the sentries, and found the one just inside the door of the keep sound asleep. Then they investigated and found that the bird had flown.”
Caerleon said, “Do they suspect us?”
Rhys said, “No, the story is that Prince Henry has spirited the girl away. He was the last one to visit her, and it seemed a reasonable theory, since he was so upset with his brother. If Henry comes back to court, I don’t envy him his position there.”
Gwyn heard that William was in a monumental fury, bawling threats of revenge. If Prince Henry had not left the fortress, it would have gone hard with him. Rhys continued to talk; his glance passed over Gwyn without recognition. “The uproar was so great that most of Henry’s friends escaped from the fort as fast as they could, galloping north. We left without ceremony. It would be a disaster if William thought she had come with us.”
“Where did Prince Henry go?” asked Caerleon. “Did he have the girl?”
He was baiting his leader, and enjoying the surprise he held ready to spring.
“No one knows,” said Rhys heavily. “I hope so, for the girl means disaster for whoever gives her shelter.”
Caerleon spoke boastfully. “I had not thought Lord Rhys to be so chickenhearted,” he said. “What would you say if I told you I had the girl?”
Rhys stopped in the act of dismounting. At length he said, tentatively, “The girl is here?”
Caerleon laughed again. “Yes, she certainly is!”
Daffyd spoke for the first time, a deep rumble that began in his chest. “Best we have the lady,” he said, “then we know where she is.”
Rhys said impatiently, “Nothing but trouble.”
“She’s safe enough,” laughed Caerleon. “Your hound sees to that. I pity the man who dares lift a finger to take her!”
“You fear that dog over much.”
But Rhys moved through his men, who gave way before him, until he reached Gwyn. She stood beside her pony, one hand still holding the reins. She had tucked the dagger into her belt, and her free hand stroked the hound’s enormous head.
“Maxen?” inquired his master. “Do you not come to welcome me? Or have you taken a new loyalty?”
The dog took one step, no more, toward Rhys and lifted his muzzle to Rhys’s outstretched hand. “Well, knowing the lady,” said Rhys, addressing the dog, but his words meant for Gwyn, “it may well take both of us to protect her.”
Gwyn spoke for the first time. “I shall not trouble you, Lord Rhys, longer than it takes to travel out of reach of my enemies.”
“And then, lady? You will return to your manor?”
“Then,” she said, carefully restraining the resentful words that tumbled to her lips, “I shall seek a way to travel to my grandfather, in Port Madoc.”
The hound was glaring at something he did not like. He bared his fangs once, as if in promise, but when Gwyn glanced in the direction he was facing, there was only Caerleon to be seen, tightening the strap on a pack saddle. Whatever had bothered the dog must have vanished.
“So. You are, in fact, in my custody,” said Rhys flatly.
For the first time Gwyn realized fully the danger she had placed her countrymen in. She was remorseful, but hardly knew what to do. “Perhaps I should go to my land in the Cotswolds,” she suggested “I don’t know what else to do. I know my men would rally to me, and we could perhaps fight William’s men, at least for a short while.”
Rhys shook his head determinedly. “I cannot let you do this,” he said flatly. “William’s men have already taken over the Ramsey land, from what I heard. I cannot escort you there. We must do as we had planned.”
Caerleon snorted, “You still believe in William’s treaty?”
“There will be no treaty,” Rhys said emphatic
ally. “I do not deal with men who have no honor.”
“Then we return empty-handed to Clwyd?” Caerleon made no attempt to hide his disgust at his leader’s decision.
“I did not say that. But a man who calls us savages, while ruling at the devil’s prompting himself, has no rule over us. And we will tell him so — from Ludlow.”
“Ludlow Castle?” Caerleon’s lips spread slowly into a wide grin. “Ludlow Castle! We’ll take it!”
“And,” interrupted Gwyn, “how will you do that? With a handful of men, in only leather armor, against a Norman fort? You’re mad!”
But to her surprise, Rhys’s rugged features relaxed into a boyish grin that matched his captain’s. “We’ll take it,” he promised, “never fear about that!”
Gwyn could not hold back her bitter words. “A brave man here in the dark! When you’re face to face with the Norman knights, it’s a different story!”
Rhys countered, “You think we can’t take the castle?”
“Judging,” she said sharply, “from the valiant battle you put up back at Winchester when I was on the auction platform, I doubt you could fight your way into a peddler’s pack!”
She turned swiftly to mount her pony, lest they detect her tears.
“Only a fool,” said Rhys, after a moment, “would fight William in his own court. But on the Marches — that’s a different story!”
Caerleon gave the word and the train moved on ahead, and one by one the ponies pulled away from the defensive barrier they had flung up, to form a long single-file pack train along the ancient trackway. Gwyn felt Rhys’s deep-set eyes on her and was stirred to prod him into some kind of response. “I suppose you would like to see me sold?”
Her voice dripped with scorn, but Rhys was unmoved. “You are a Welsh lady, and therefore I should not like to see you harmed. But what William does in his court is no affair of Wales.”
So saying, he mounted his pony, gave her a quick look, and reined his pony into a trot. Gwyn looked after him, holding fast to the mane of her own pony, in total exasperation.
Crown of Passion Page 20